


The Sordid Tale of Meryell Verlen

by Terion



Series: The Inquisition's Mercenaries [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Elven Alienages, Everyone Has Issues, Explicit Language, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mercenaries, Meryell has a Foul Mouth - You Have Been Warned, Original Character(s), Original City Elf Inquisitor, Original Mercenary Company, POV Alternating, Recovery, Self-Doubt, Sexual Content, adopted families, chapters including it will be marked NSFW in the top notes if you wish to skip those parts, elven language, fair warning: sexy times are to be had here and will not be shirked from, lyrium headcanon, past bad relationships, past emotional abuse, the canon timeline makes no sense travelwise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-11 03:57:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 58
Words: 297,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5613163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terion/pseuds/Terion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meryell was a sellsword in the Fangs of Vimmark before the Conclave, hired as the best of the company to find her way in, get the job done, and get out to get the rest of her gold without getting caught. Now she's the supposed Herald for a religion she doesn't even believe in with magic tearing her palm open and no one that she trusts at her back. So she does the only things she knows how to do - fight and cuss - and leaves everything else to fall where it may.</p><p>  <b>Currently on unknown posting schedule.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "I'm not fucking Dalish."

**Author's Note:**

> A new story for the new year! Also I had the thought of a foul-mouthed city elf making her way through the shenanigans of the Inquisition whilst starting a playthrough of an elf warrior and she just stuck with me. Couldn't resist giving her life.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell is not stupid, sure as _shit_ not Dalish, and she absolutely will not put up with anyone's bullshit. Solas learns all three of these lessons in the first hours of knowing her.

"You are Dalish. And clearly away from the rest of your clan."

" _Whot?_ " exclaimed Meryell, her native Ferelden accent thickening as she jerked around to glare at the other elf. "I'm not fucking _Dalish_."

What's-his-name smiled - _fucking smiled_ \- and gestured towards his own face, saying, "You have what they call the _vallaslin_."

"And," Cassandra - she remembered _her_ name simply because she wanted to remember who deserved shit back on them later - noted sternly, her eyes tightly narrowed, "that is what all information about you that Leliana could gather pointed to. According to what records were left from the Conclave, you arrived with a group of elves from Clan Lavellan."

Meryell growled - because this shit was supposed to have been a simple job - and snapped, "Just because I'm wearing their shit and walked in with them doesn't mean fuckwhat. I saw 'em on the road heading in, drew shit on my face, and - _bam_ \- easy pass in. I'm from fucking _South Reach_."

"In Ferelden?" Cassandra asked in surprise.

"You know another South Reach, Seeker?" queried the dwarf, Varric. _He_ was an author _and_ a smartass. She liked books and was a fucking smartass herself, so she actually deigned to remember his name.

Snorting, Meryell fumbled at one of the packs on her belt and pulled out one of the oil cloths she kept around for her blades. She crouched down and dunked the whole thing into the snow, swishing it around a bit to melt some, then stood back up with it in hand. Looking right at the three of them, she scrubbed it underneath her eyes and to the sides to get rid of the swooping branched pattern she'd carefully drawn there with a bit of charcoal from her last fire outside the Conclave. Honestly she hadn't expected the Dalish to buy it when she'd approached them but she'd told them she was from Clan Adahlfen, the very clan that the Hero of Ferelden had been aided by during the Blight. Her city-bred accent gave her away as not being _true_ Dalish but it had been easy to spin a tale of escaping her alienage and proving her worth to the clan.

Now she sort of regretted that they'd bought it hook, line, and sinker with whatever the _fuck_ was on her hand.

Certain she was done and not really caring if she wasn't, Meryell shoved the cloth back into her pouch just as said _thing_ flared and sent arrows of pain arching up her arm. "Satisfied?" she snapped, taking a little bit of pleasure from the stunned look on Cassandra's face but instantly losing it at the smug smile on what's-his-name's. "Good. Then we can move the fuck on. I'll close this shit, maybe die or maybe not, and then I can fucking go back home. Or wherever."

Turning on her heel, she plowed onward, not really caring if they were following or not. By the time she reached the slope of the hill that would lead them onward, she heard the sound of crunching snow underneath their boots.

"So," came what's-his-name's voice from _right fucking behind her_ , "you are a mystery then." How in the Maker's soggy asshole had he snuck up on her?

Rolling her eyes skyward to ask silently for patience - she wasn't religious but fuck sometimes you just had to ask - Meryell hissed, "Whot, you want to fucking _solve_ me now, _hahren?_ " She sneered the title at the end with the same loathing she'd given to the hahren of the South Reach alienage before she'd left that piss-pot behind her. He obviously took it as the insult she intended it to be by the subtle twitch of his ears and the narrowing of his eyes. _Good_ , that proved she could get under his skin.

"Only because I enjoy a mystery, _len'alas_."

She whipped around at that, jerking one of the knives off of her belt and jabbed the tip up hard against his smarmy chin with a snarl. Ignoring the exclamations from the others, she hissed, "Just because I'm a city elf, _hahren_ , don't mean I don't know shit. Best beware, elsewise... _ar tu na'lin emma mi_. So don't call me a _dirty child_ again." The words didn't flow the way they were supposed to because of her accent but she didn't really care. And she certainly wasn't about to tell this asshole how she knew more Elven than a foul-mouthed alienage brat normally would.

His eyes narrowed at her words and he intoned quietly, "You wish to make an enemy of me, _da'len_?"

"Fuck no," replied Meryell honestly. "Making an enemy of a mage is fucking stupid. I just don't like your smarmy holier-than-thou attitude and I will call you on your shit. Seems like you need someone to." Withdrawing her blade, she sheathed it while glowering at him as she added, "You saved my ass. I appreciate people who save me."

When he arched a brow, she laughed and said, "Honest!"

What's-his-name just frowned for a moment before saying quietly, "My statement stands. You are a mystery."

"Yeah, yeah," she said with a flippant wave of her hand as she turned to move onward. "Just don't think you're going to solve any mysteries and get into my pants. I don't fuck my own kind."

"I do not..."

" _Enough_." Cassandra's voice snapped across their group with the clarion jolt of command and they moved onward in what Meryell dubbed blessed silence. She didn't like the woman at all but she could appreciate a lady who could make a man shut his _damned mouth_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvhen/Elven Translations:** _Will be taken as a mix from[Project Elvhen](http://archiveofourown.org/series/229061) and the [Elven language](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Elven_language) page on the DA wiki._
> 
> da'len : child  
> len'alas : dirty child  
> ar tu na'lin emma mi : I will see your blood on my blade  
> Adahlfen : adahlen (forest) + fen (wolf) to play off the binding of the forest spirit to the wolf create Witherfang (ie: there was a reason Zathrian chose a wolf)


	2. "Herald of fucking Andraste. What utter shite."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell plays Wicked Grace with Varric and has a long conversation with Cullen before getting body slammed by her own insecurities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ship is here and we are fucking _sailing_. We shall dub it...the S.S. Meryellen.
> 
> Very brief NSFW part at the end of chapter.

"Herald of fucking Andraste," grumbled Meryell as she rested her elbows on her knees, perched high on one of Haven's walls. "What utter shite. All of you poor sods, scuffling in the dirt for answers 'cause you're too piss scared to think straight. Fuck all."

She really needed to get a message out to Folke, let him know the shit storm she'd somehow gotten herself a part of, but she couldn't do it with that fucking redhead handling the birds. Soon as she did that, the woman would have the in she needed to start digging into her actual past. And right now she wanted her stumbling about at a loss for information more than anything. Seemed like just the sort of thing the woman needed to keep her on her toes.

And her past wasn't the business of anyone but her own fucking self.

Snorting a laugh at the thought of the cold spymaster in a right tiff, Meryell wondered if the usual message lines would be still active in the area. Normally when they did a mission and had members of the company out on their own or in pairs, someone would come in and set up either drop points or hire some poor sod to play message boy. There had been one at the Conclave, though he was probably dead now with everyone else and her last message confirming she'd obtained two of the items on the list might or might not have made it out. What she couldn't remember was where the next available sod might be for her to slip a message through without the fucking spymaster being the wiser.

Redcliffe was probably her best bet since it was one of the more populous places in the immediate area. Unless one had crept into Haven with the destruction of the Temple but she doubted it. If there had been one, they had probably high-tailed it back to wherever they'd come from.

Whichever way she figured out how to get a letter through, she'd go ahead and start writing it as soon as she got hold of ink and paper. She could probably swindle both out of the Ambassador all easy like without any questions asked.

"Hey, Mystery!"

Jerking at the word that had been such an annoyance days ago in that long ago seeming conversation with what's-his-name, she leaned forward to look down the wall. Varric stood beneath her, wearing only the half-open red tunic he'd worn underneath his coat despite the chill of the weather, and waved a deck of cards in one hand. "You up for a game of Wicked Grace?" he called up to her with a grin.

"Depends on what's at stake!" Meryell replied, rocking idly back and forth atop the wall. "I don't play without wagers, Varric. And don't fucking call me ' _Mystery_ '."

"Alright, I'll think up another nickname."

"What about my favorite word?"

She could see Varric's eyes twinkle and he hummed loud enough that she could hear, rubbing his chin in mock thoughtfulness before shaking his head. "No, no, _Fuck_ is a terrible nickname even if it is your favorite word."

Oh, _yes_ , she could get to like the dwarf. He was probably the one decent person she'd met in this whole cock-up so far.

Barking out a laugh, Meryell said, "Fine, fine. But I have to approve the nickname."

"I could just call you Merry..."

"And I'll _stab_ you in the kidney, dwarf."

Varric held up his hands in defeat then waggled the deck of cards at her again. "Stakes are drinks in the tavern," he said, finally answering her first comment to the question of playing. "Just us playing though."

Grinning, Meryell turned and descended the wall, her fingers and bare toes easily finding again the little ledges of the stone that had allowed her to scale it in the first place. As she dropped to the ground, she commented, "That's 'cause no one else around here seems to have a fucking fun bone in their body."

He just shrugged then looked down at her feet and she wiggled her toes against the cold ground in response. Varric then shook his head, saying, "You and Chuckles are mad to walk around without shoes on in this weather."

"Chuckles?" she queried.

"Solas."

She just frowned at him and tilted her head slightly to the side, the name not ringing a bell in her memory. Varric blinked at her then gestured at her left hand as he commented, "The elf that kept that thing from killing you?"

"Oh!" Meryell then burst out into full-on belly laugh before she leaned towards him to say, "I didn't ever make note of it. His smarmy know-it-all act knocked his name right out my fucking brain 'cause I don't deal with that shit. I've just been calling him _what's-his-name_ in my head but Chuckles is so much better."

She then leaned against the wall and lifted one leg, bracing her shin above her other knee to show him the hard calloused soles of her feet. "And to answer your comment," she noted with a wry smile, "I broke my feet in to major shit years ago. Not always enough money in the alienage for fucking shoes."

Varric nodded at that - though there was that little tightness around his eyes that most folks had when she made a comment about how shite alienage life really was sometimes - then he grinned. "You can use it if you want. Seems like you get under his skin far more than anyone else around here."

"I call assholes on their bullshit. S'part of my charm."

"It's part of your _something_ , sweetheart, but I don't know if it's charm," he replied as he gestured towards the tavern.

Meryell gasped theatrically and grabbed mockingly at her chest as they started walking in that direction. "You wound me, Varric! For that I'll have to take everything of yours in this game."

He laughed at that and grinned at her, saying, "You can try."

Two hours later Meryell was victoriously perched on a barrel outside of Haven in the soldier's encampment, her blood humming with all the Ferelden ale she'd consumed and Varric's shirt draped voluminously about her shoulders. She laughed as she kicked her bare heels against the wood then lifted the bottle that she'd acquired while the barmaid had her back turned to her lips. Playing Wicked Grace with Varric and having the soldiers in the tavern egg them on had made her feel considerably more at home at Haven than she had only hours before.

Cassandra and the spymaster and the rest of that lot, they weren't like her. They were all so damned _other_ , like the humans in the higher parts of South Reach growing up. Varric and those soldiers, _those_ were her people.

It made her feel like she was back with the company, if only for a moment.

Suddenly melancholy at that thought, Meryell lowered the bottle and wrapped both hands around it. As she tapped her fingernails idly against the glass, she became aware of a shape moving towards her out of the dark and narrowed her eyes to try and make out who it was. Even with all of the alcohol in her, her eyes were still plenty sharp.

She caught a tall silhouette, the glint of armor via the light of one of the nearby dying fires, and then the billowing ruff of fur. _The Commander_. There wasn't any other person in Haven that wore fur that boldly.

"Evenin', Commander," she called out gaily, laughing lightly when he jumped and his hand went to the sword at his hip. Man always at the ready, even when he didn't have to be. Spoke well of the way he handled himself and his men, to her. "S'only little ole me."

She couldn't see him blink in the dark but was certain he _did_ in the instant before he quietly asked, "Herald?"

Snorting, Meryell lifted her right hand with the bottle still clutched in it to gesture towards him. " _No_ ," she snapped sternly, "none of that _shite_. I'm not no fucking _saviour_."

There was silence for a moment then the Commander chuckled, a low, rusty sort of sound that made her think of the oldest hands in the company who'd seen too much battle for any sane man but kept on fighting. "Our men," he intoned in a gentle voice, "would argue with you on that, I dare say." She saw him tilt his head then, dying light catching the blonde of his hair. "M'lady?"

"That's 'cause soldiers need a _thing_ to fight for in a fucking cock-up of a battle like this," she said sternly in response. "Been around 'em since I was ten and five so I know how they work. _They_ can view me like that if it gives 'em peace but ain't fucking having that shite from you lot. You all know better than to look at me like that." Meryell then grimaced and replied to his query of the title, " _Fuck no_."

"Is _that_ were you learned how to cuss better than some of my men?" he asked and she could _feel_ the amusement oozing out of him.

Laughing, she replied, "Knew how to cuss before I was out of fucking swaddling cloths, Commander. South Reach's alienage is a piss pot mess." She then cocked her head up at him, felt her eyes swim, and closed them as she waved the bottle in his direction. "Sit fucking down. Yer too damned tall and I'm _sloppy_."

A leather gloved hand closed over hers abruptly, the material chilled from the weather but she could feel the _warmth_ blazing underneath despite it. Man was a fucking _furnace_. She glared at him at the touch and he inclined his head slightly before saying kindly, "In that case, shouldn't you be abed?"

"Ain't done with the night yet," replied Meryell with her toothiest grin. She slapped her free hand down on the barrel next to her and continued, "Sit! Need to sober up before I do shit."

"I dare say this will not help," he pointed out as he squeezed her fingers lightly around the neck of the bottle. The Commander then released her hand and settled onto the barrel next to her with a smile as he added, "Though I think if I tried to take it from you, I'd have a knife somewhere I didn't want it."

She flashed another grin at him and lifted the bottle to her lips. "Thigh," she said as she lowered it. "Easiest place from my height."

"Contemplating my demise already, Her...m'la... _sorry_."

Taking a little pity on the man since he had been nice enough since she'd woken up in Haven - he'd even showed a little _smirk_ when she'd said a jab at Cassandra and the spymaster's expense during one of their little meetings - she said, "Meryell. Never Merry. I _will_ fucking knife you for sure then."

"Meryell," he said and she couldn't help the little shiver that ran up her spine in response. Maker's balls, if she weren't sloppy drunk and trying to get out of this whole cock-up as fast as she could, she'd probably try to coax him back to her cabin for a bit of fun. Then again, the Commander didn't seem like the sort for a simple roll in the hay.

He'd tried calling her _m'lady_ for fuck's sake. That was a _gentleman_ if anything.

And gentlemen didn't _fuck_ rude knife-eared girls from alienages.

His voice saying something brought her out of her thoughts and she focused on it enough to catch the end of him saying, "...ou should call me Cullen."

"Cullen," repeated Meryell, letting the syllables roll off her tongue slowly. Good name. _Good man._ She'd actually deign to remember his for good reasons.

He nodded then said, "May I ask a question, Meryell?"

"Am I under orders to answer, Cullen?" she shot back with a wicked smile.

He blushed - _fucking blushed_ \- before answering, "You aren't under my command so no. The...ah... _conditions_ of answering are up to the discretion of the lady." His eyes gleamed a little wickedly in the dark as he added, "Should we find a lady somewhere about, of course."

Meryell felt a grin - a true, _honest_ grin - stretching her mouth and she leaned towards him to purr, "Oh, I could _like_ you, Cullen. Varric was totally wrong when he said you had no sense of humor." She then straightened and gave a mocking half bow towards him, just low enough to count but not enough to make her head start to spin. "Ask your question, good sir."

Cullen smiled and leaned back against Haven's outer wall before asking, "I wasn't told much about you other than the fact that you weren't actually Dalish as Leliana had first thought. Can I inquire as to the truth?"

"Question for a question!" she crowed as she jabbed a finger at his upper arm, her fingernail catching the very edge of the spaulder that covered most of that area. Smiling up at him, she said in a softer tone, "Seems only fair."

"I'm probably going to regret this but...agreed."

Well. She hadn't honestly expected him to take her up on the offer.

Shaking her head, Meryell said, "Well then. In answer to your question, the truth is _fucking complicated_. And I ain't telling the whole of it 'cause I don't want anybody mucking about in my past, 'specially not that woman."

"Your secrets remain your own with me, Meryell."

She blinked at him, more than a little surprised by the honesty in his voice because she was perfectly used to people like the spymaster, who used secrets to get things done. Fuck, _she'd_ been that person once or twice. Anyone in her world that normally told her they'd keep her secrets, was lying in order to get them for a future backstab.

The Commander wasn't a part of that world though. Didn't mean she was going to spill everything.

"Thank you," she softly said before lifting the bottle to her lips. Then she let out a slow breath and said, "South Reach was home once. Years ago, before...well, before lots of things went to shit."

"Before you were ten and five?" he queried gently.

"Was in a gang then. Did some odd jobs for a mercenary company pulling some shite around the Arling," Meryell continued even as she nodded in confirmation to his query. "Got some of their people out of a right fucking mess and then got an invitation. Wasn't anything left for me there 'cept alienage life and possibly ending up in a noose 'cause of my choices. So I joined 'em and a job led me here."

Cullen blinked and shifted slightly as he asked, "You were at the Conclave for a job? What.." He then paused as she smiled at him and laughed, sheepishly lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. "My apologies. It's your turn for a question, isn't it?"

"Technically you're ahead two because of that 'ten and five' question but I'll give you a pass for now," she said with a wink. Laughing, Meryell asked, "Since we're going with origin stories, how'd you get here, Cullen?"

"Ah. Well. I was born in Honnleath, it's southeast of here just a little more than six days of riding at a decent pace. At least it was years ago, that all may have changed since the Blight." He paused, brow furrowed slightly, then shook his head. "I wanted to be a Templar from very young, wanted to help people, and I was taken into formal training at thirteen. After that...well. Suffice to say that I've served at two Circles and neither turned out to be what I thought they would. Cassandra recruited me from Kirkwall a few months ago and after everything that had happened I felt that it was the better course to help people than to remain with the Order."

Andraste's flaming tits, _good_ as a word didn't cover the man.

She had no chance of coaxing him into bed. _None_.

Shaking her head, she said, "I wasn't aware that Templars could just leave the Order. Thought the Chantry assholes kept a pretty tight leash on their dogs. No offense meant."

"None taken," he replied with a tight smile. "I'm well aware of how the Order is viewed, especially now since a large portion has broken with the Chantry, as well as our own... _their_...abuses of authority."

Suddenly feeling starkly more sober than she had only a few minutes ago, Meryell flicked her eyes down to the vambraces he wore on his arms that were currently resting on his thighs. He noticed her gaze and turned them slightly, revealing the Sword of Mercy stamped into the steel, before chuckling.

"A reminder," Cullen intoned in a low voice. She decided to let it lie. Folke had always said that she didn't know when to stop pushing for answers but she certainly did. It was just that most of the time she didn't fucking care enough _to_ stop.

"We were hired to retrieve a list of items," she said, changing the subject and answering his second question. "Mostly rare books kept in the Temple's library but also magical items that were supposed to have been brought by several of those attending.."

"So," he said slowly, "you're a thief."

Meryell shrugged at that and replied, "When a job calls for it. I'm not fucking ashamed of what I am, Cullen. There are some shitty company's out there but not _mine_. We never take jobs just to do harm, never shed blood unless it is absolutely necessary, and never harm innocents. So if you've got something against _that_ go ahead and _fucking say it_."

"I just...what...Maker's breath, that's not what I meant at all, Meryell!" exclaimed Cullen breathlessly. "I don't... _Maker_." She watched him, eyes narrowed, as he bit his lip nervously before he finally seemed to steady. "I'm just trying to understand you. Not judge."

She just stared at him, more than a little ashamed that her sudden burst of anger had gotten away from her and now sat in a heavy, choking knot in the center of her chest. Usually when people said _thief_ it meant they thought the worst of her and the company. And she had to defend them against that sort of shit. They were her _family_ , the only family she had left.

"I," she began then stopped as the heavy height of the shame threatened to choke her. After a moment she wrenched control back and whispered, "I'm sorry, Cullen. I'm not... _fuck_ , I'm not used to people being nice."

He nodded slowly and after a moment said softly, "Tell me about them."

Meryell choked on a laugh because _how_ could she tell such a _good man_ about the former murderers and thieves and really bad (but still somehow _good_ ) men and women that were all she had in the whole of Thedas? Then she remembered the bottle in her hand and drained the rest of it, bringing back the burn of the alcohol in her blood, before she let the now empty container slip from her fingers to the ground. A moment later the stories were tripping from her lips and he _listened_ , really _listened_ , and the hours slipped away from her until she was stone cold _fucking sober_ and dawn was creeping over the horizon.

"Oh Maker's soggy asshole," she groaned as she realized the time. Then she shifted slightly on the barrel and whined at the pins and needles that lanced through the whole of her lower half. " _Fuck_. I can't feel my ass."

Cullen laughed despite the fact that he seemed to be in the very same predicament as her and she got caught up in the sound, an honest _dorky_ little bray of a laugh that made her want to join in almost immediately. Maybe it was how tired she was or the fact that he listened or just being able to get a little of the stress of being away from the company off her chest by talking about them but she gave in. They ended up collapsing against each other, giggling like a pair of fools, and she was certain she saw a pair of soldiers doing a morning patrol looking at them like they were mad.

Finally they managed to get a hold of themselves and shakily stood, working out the stiff muscles of their bodies. She shivered in the chill of the morning air after a moment and pulled Varric's shirt a little more tightly about herself, which wasn't hard as the dwarf was more than twice as broad as she was. The shirt itself just wasn't all that thick of fabric and even doubling it up didn't help stave off the cold.

"Well," she heard Cullen say and focused her attention on him, narrowing her eyes at his _somehow_ sunny grin. "Would the thief do me the honor of allowing me to escort her back to her cabin?"

Meryell blinked at him then found her own mouth stretching to match that grin. It was the question of a gentleman, to be uttered towards a lady, but he said it to _her_ and he called her _thief_.

"Not sure just how much of an honor it is," she replied, "but the thief will allow it."

His smile seemed to widen as he offered his arm and she willingly locked her arm into his - mostly because otherwise she might fall down. And partly because _fuck_ she wanted to. She could at least appreciate him even if she could never coax him into her bed.

As they walked slowly through Haven in the light of dawn, he bent his head just enough and whispered in the very tip of her ear, "It is enough of an honor for me." She felt her ears twitch in response, felt molten _heat_ jolt to life between her thighs, and very nearly said _fuck_ propriety and _fuck_ decency too. All she wanted was to drag him into that cabin and ride him until their thighs were raw and their breath coming in hard gasps that dispelled all efforts at talking.

She needed to fuck something _now_ , even if it was her own bloody _fingers_.

Biting her lip, Meryell somehow managed to say a decent goodbye to the man and threw the bolt once she was inside her cabin. She stripped in record time and flung herself into bed, the fingers of her right hand already sliding inside her wet cunt before she was even entirely under the covers. All it took was a few thrusts and the thought of _him_ above her with all the weight of his heavier human form bearing down on her, of his breath ghosting along the shell of her ear, of his face buried between the crux of her thighs, and she was writhing in orgasm. It was _fucking bliss_ for a matter of moments.

Then reality came crashing back down as she lay panting in the aftermath.

No one wanted a dirty alienage whelp like her for a partner. Maybe for the occasional tumble but never for more than that. She never expected more, never sought it, because it was surely never to be.

No one wanted a _knife-eared bitch._

Meryell closed her eyes against the thoughts, refusing to acknowledge the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, and curled up underneath the covers to try and get _some_ sleep without thinking about good men who didn't deserve to be dragged down into the muck with her.


	3. "I don't gossip, dwarf."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric annoys Cullen and while he's trying to push the dwarf in one direction to help Meryell, Varric's gently nudging the Commander in his own way towards the elf. Cullen's personal issues dash the beginnings of the motion, however.

"Curly!"

_Maker's fucking breath._

Cullen twitched at the addition of the curse, something he'd _never_ \- no, that was a lie, _rarely_ was more truthful - said either to himself or aloud. He'd heard it plenty of times during his training and more so during the years he'd served but never - _rarely!_ \- used it. Mostly because he didn't feel the need to and compensated curses with a withering glare that made others back down.

And he knew _exactly_ who was to blame for it getting into his head now.

Their Herald, who was absolutely nothing like what one would think someone given the title _Herald of Andraste_ would be, was to blame. Meryell was as sharp-tongued as she was sharp-witted, drank pint for pint with his men, and played a mean hand of Wicked Grace from what he'd overheard. He'd learned a great deal about her only a few nights ago, when he'd come across her sitting on that barrel outside of Haven and joined her because she'd asked. It was a bit pleasing to know things that Leliana didn't given the spymaster's penchant for digging for ever last bit of information she could find.

Meryell was also like flotsam in the river, uprooted from all she knew and washed downstream into the unknown. He knew _that_ particular feeling all too well.

"Andraste's _ass_ , Curly, slow down!" snapped Varric's voice from behind him. He sighed, having hoped that if he kept walking the dwarf would just _give up_ but Varric was persistent if nothing else.

Coming to a stop, Cullen turned to arch an eyebrow down at the dwarf and asked, "Must you continue calling me that?"

Varric just grinned in response despite how hard he was breathing from trying to keep up and replied, "You only just became a decent enough sort to _earn_ a nickname from me, Curly. It's an honor!"

Snorting, Cullen rested both hand on the hilt of his sword and shifted to stand with all of his weight on one leg. "Your idea of honor," he intoned slowly, "and mine have very different definitions, Varric."

"Bah. Who cares. _I_ think it's an honor and that's what matters."

Rolling his eyes skyward, Cullen silently asked for strength before asking, "What do you _want_?"

"Me? I don't _want_ anything, Curly, just looking for a bit of gossip."

"I don't _gossip_ , dwarf."

"No," replied Varric and he jerked his head downward, glaring at the dwarf as heard _suggestion_ lacing his voice, "but there's plenty of gossip about _you_ and our newly beloved Herald."

Cullen started to open his mouth to tell the dwarf that it wasn't _his_ or _anyone else's_ business about what was between him and Meryell but stopped himself. _That_ would have been playing right into Varric's story greedy hands. Instead he snapped his teeth together and glowered, summoning up the full force of the glare he'd worked on for years.

Varric, to his credit, didn't flinch underneath it but the dwarf had followed Hawke around for the better part of a decade through shit that Cullen didn't even want to begin to fully comprehend. He knew enough about a _few_ of Treva Hawke's exploits and those were enough to make him falter just a bit.

Taking a deep breath, he said, "I would greatly appreciate it, Varric, if you didn't _feed_ whatever gossip there might be about Meryell and I."

" _Oh_. You're already on first name basis, Curly?"

"What?" hissed Cullen, unable to stop his _damned skin_ from flushing in response to the sudden embarrassment surging through him. "It's not...I...Maker's breath, _she_ asked me to!" Looking down at Varric, he found the dwarf waggling his eyebrows at him and flinched before spitting out, "She didn't _want_ to be called Herald. I'm not one to disrespect a lady's wishes."

"Mmhmm."

" _Varric._ "

"Oh, I believe you, Curly!" The dwarf then grinned up at him and lowered his voice as he said, "But don't expect me to believe that you don't feel something for her. I've seen you eyeing her."

Cullen closed his eyes at that, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off the headache he could feel coming. Thankfully it was just the normal sort and not one induced by his withdrawals, so it wouldn't be one of the ones that had him hiding in his tent from the smallest amount of light for a few hours.

"I'm _worried_ about her," he growled after a moment, dropping his hand. "She's..." He'd promised her that he wouldn't spill her secrets but that didn't mean that he couldn't push Varric in a certain direction with her. They were already going in the direction of friends but he knew that of anyone, the dwarf was someone good to have at your back. And he could take a good guess that Meryell felt like she didn't have anyone here she could put her back up against. "She's more fragile than she seems."

"Oh, I know," commented Varric, his eyes gleaming with something Cullen had never seen the dwarf direct towards him. _Respect_. "Hawke was the same way when we met."

Huh. He'd never imagined Hawke as being one of that sort but he'd never gotten to know the apostate that well during the time they'd both been in Kirkwall. Mostly because in the early years he'd still been too _wounded_ to lend more than grudging respect to her alongside a healthy bit of fear and too busy in the later trying to keep the Gallows from falling around his ears while trying to save as many of his charges as he could from the wrath of his fellows or Meredith.

Shaking himself, Cullen looked down at Varric and asked, "Guard her back in the field? I know the plans stand for you all to head into the Hinterlands as soon as the scouting report from Harding comes in."

"You think I wouldn't, Curly?" Varric asked. "I've got to protect my new Wicked Grace partner."

 _Of course_ the dwarf would put it that way. He'd learned a _little_ of how to read the vague, dancing around speech that both he and Hawke tended to use.

"Good. I'll rest easier knowing that."

Varric chuckled before saying, "You _do_ like her."

He could feel the heat crawling up the back of his neck again and hoped to everything that his fur hid the bulk of it. Resisting the urge to rub his neck, Cullen replied stonily, "Watch your words, dwarf."

"Oh don't worry, Curly. I think she's been eying _you_ too."

With that the dwarf strode off, whistling an off-key Chantry tune that would have made Cullen wince if he hadn't been distracted by the words he'd said. _She_ had been eying him? Had she? He'd thought that night that they spent talking that there had been _something_ there during the morning hours, when she'd shivered on the way back to her cabin. By and large, he'd tossed it aside as his imagination after reality had come crashing back when he'd woken up in his tent later that day.

After all, who could care for a half-broken lyrium addict?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Treva Hawke is the same Hawke from [Kirkwall Freed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/992407). Only in this universe she fled Kirkwall.


	4. "Kill these wolves, Herald. Find my druffalo, Herald. Cut my grass, Herald. Suck my fucking dick, Herald."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Towards the end of their time in the Hinterlands, Meryell gets injured enough to require her to be transported back to Haven. Everything goes downhill from there as some of blanks in her story get filled in long before she wanted them to be. Even worse, one of the secrets she's kept close to her heart for years (as well as a new one brought to life since her arrival in Haven) gets revealed to Varric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is long. I thought about cutting it down into pieces but ended up deciding against it.

_"Kill these wolves_ , Herald. Find my _druffalo_ , Herald. Cut my _grass_ , Herald. Suck my _fucking dick_ , Herald."

"No, no," commented Varric wryly, sounding out of breath from behind her as they climbed yet _another_ fucking mountain, "tell us how you really feel, Swears. I don't think I quite caught it."

Meryell growled through gritted teeth in response, which drew a rusty laugh out of the dwarf and one of Cassandra's noises of disgust from further behind her. Though the latter was probably more about her language than Varric's comment.

It had been nearly a month since they'd left Haven for the Hinterlands and almost two months since the whole cock-up at the Temple of Sacred Ashes that had led to her being claimed the Herald of Andraste. At the beginning of their trip, she was utterly certain that this was some sort of test from Cassandra and the spymaster that she was supposed to utterly fail. She'd been fairly convinced that both of them thought her a fuckwit.

As soon as they'd hit the Crossroads and became embroiled in the fighting, Meryell had firmly grabbed the reins of the little group and _tugged_. People were _suffering_ and she wasn't going to fucking have it, not if there was a single damned thing she could do to stand against it. She saw the chaos there and deliberately went from person to person that had gathered there, taking note of names and the things they needed while silently thanking the company's old quartermaster Morys for teaching her years ago how to keep things straight in her head as well as remember them clearly. For Vale and all of his men, she had suggestions of what they could do in the meantime before she was able to bring back the things that were needed.

Then she'd led her little core group and a small selection of some of the Inquisition soldiers that had accompanied them to the region out into the middle of the damned war between the mages and templars and took both camps by _fucking storm_. The trust that she'd felt with the company wasn't there but the _feel_ was there, especially as she and Cassandra got the hang of working around each other in the field. She still didn't like the woman as a person but _fuck_ all if she ever wanted to face her in a knuckle down, drag out fight. Meryell was _good_ with blades. The Seeker was a force of fucking _nature_ with a shield.

Her decade plus of experience with the company continued to come in handy after that and she secured supplies, forged allegiances, and cussed her way up and down the hills while killing a whole _mother fuck_ of people. Varric probed her for exactly how she was such a good leader but she just scoffed at him, saying that she was an utter _shit_ leader. Cassandra pressed the same point, stating once point blank that they _had_ expected her to not be much more than a figurehead, and she'd told her that it was true and she couldn't organize an orgy in a brothel. Chuckles had just lurked on his own side of the fire fucking _watching her_ and she'd snarled curses at him in Elven every time she felt her skin crawling with his gaze.

Now they were climbing the hills towards Redcliffe and she could feel all of her left arm jolt with pain from fingertips to shoulder. The mark sizzled across her palm, feeling like it was _splitting her skin open_ despite the fact that she knew it wasn't. _Hurt_ didn't describe the pain she was in.

"Rift!" she snapped and reached over her shoulders for her daggers while mourning the loss of her old gear at the Temple. If nothing else, she had to contact the company so she could get her spare harness sent. After too many years with the same rig, changing her draw pattern up was screwing with all of her motions in battle.

No, no, she didn't need her damned fucking extra harness. She intended on helping them close the Breach since she was the only one who fucking could and then she was _gone_. No more, no less.

After eleven rifts and far too much of everything else, they fell instantly into pattern as demons spilled forth from the shifting green tear in the Veil. Cassandra charged at the enemy behind the closest, drawing the attention of the latter and turning it away from the group. Meryell took that one first with Varric, her blades tearing into its core while he slammed poison tipped crossbow bolts into its skull above her head. Then she dove to the next closest one, hampering it with her blades enough that Varric could kill it with a few well placed shots or Chuckles could slam home a ball of force into it while Cassandra held the attention of them all with sword and shield. It was basically rinse and repeat after that point.

That's the way it _should_ have gone, anyway.

Instead Cassandra _missed_ her charge because the demons moved _too fucking fast_ and had to compensate with a spin that brought her shield smashing in a downward swipe into the closest demon skull. Meryell felt _sluggish_ as she darted forward then immediately _faster_ as soon as she stepped into the same space as the demons. The mark flared, fresh agony sizzling through it and making the skin all along her arm twitch while her whole body screamed that something was _fucking wrong_.

A demon's claw caught her marked arm at the elbow as her pain wracked limb faltered through a strike and tore her flesh open from joint to joint, elbow straight down to wrist. Meryell spat in its face on instinct and slammed her other dagger home into its skull all the way to the hilt. As it dissolved back into the Fade, she darted forward despite her left hand being limp now, her dagger fallen point first into the ground behind her as she streamed blood in her wake. She kept moving because you _never ever fucking stop in a pitched battle_ and all too quickly she forgot the wound as the fight rushed over her, making it feel as if she wasn't wounded at all despite her useless arm.

It was all _breathe_ and _kill_ and _survive_ now, a constant repetition of those words as she sliced her blade through demonic hamstrings and spun just short of stepping into the rage of one of Chuckles' blizzards.

And then, it was over.

Meryell swayed, light-headed from blood loss, and dropped her other dagger. With her free hand she gripped her wrist, not thinking about the warm wetness of her own blood slicking her fingers and the palms of her half gloves, and somehow focused enough to _push_ the mark at the rift. As it snapped shut, she blinked slowly at her bloody hand and the gash that had flayed open her arm and breathed, " _Fuck me blind._ "

Then her eyes rolled back in her head just as she realized she was falling backwards like a cut tree and then there was blessed _nothingness._

Consciousness came back painfully slow and the first thing Meryell heard was the sound of two people arguing while trying not to raise their voices.

"You _knew_ this, Commander, and did not tell us?"

"I told her that her secrets were safe with me, Cassandra. I don't break my word once I've given it."

"This is something we should have known! To have a _mercenary_ as the Herald..."

"She is no different than she was when you left for the Hinterlands!"

"There are few who would follow her knowing her past, Cullen."

"And I will _run_ to be at the head of that obvious gathering of fools who see a good woman and not some caricature of a sellsword."

Meryell managed to crack open her eyes at that statement, which made her feel warm to the core and guilty at the same time. She was _not_ a good woman. How had she left him think she was? She didn't deserve such praise from him.

Cullen stood with his back to her and he seemed somehow...smaller? She could barely see Cassandra from the way he was standing, nothing more than her mud spattered boots and pants visible between his legs. But why did Cullen seem _smaller?_

Cassandra made a noise of disgust then her head tipped around his shoulder, her eyes darkening with obvious distaste. "She wakes," commented the Seeker, her Nevarran accent slightly sharper than it usually was. "I will return to the Chantry to see what Leliana and Josephine have thought of to fix this." The door of the cabin slammed shut in her wake as she spun on a heel with all the fury of a small storm and Meryell couldn't help the small groan that rattled out of her throat.

Just when she and the Seeker were starting to tolerate each other, they somehow discovered her past. Cullen hadn't given up her secrets though so how had they known?

"Are you alright?"

Refocusing, Meryell blinked as she realized that Cullen was leaning over her, his forehead creased with the telltale signs of concern. Trying to smile, she realized suddenly _why_ he seemed smaller than usual - his face wasn't framed by the red-black ruff of fur like it usually was. Instead his chest plate was bare of both it and the red and gold fabric that was normally wrapped around him...because it was laying on top of _her._

Panic welled up in her throat, fighting for dominance against the sudden heat in her belly and she wanted to _fucking scream._

 _Good_ men didn't want to _fuck_ dirty elf girls.

She chanted it silently like a mantra as she licked her dry lips and rasped, "How the _fuck?_ "

The lines of concern on his face loosened then and she knew why: the company had the same rule as any group of soldiers - _if you can still curse, you'll probably fucking live._ He chuckled and asked, "How did you get back to Haven or how did they find out?"

" _Both_ ," she replied.

"Let me get you some water and something to eat first then I'll tell you the whole story. You've been unconscious for more than a week and with all the blood you lost Solas has been worrying about the rate you were getting it back since we haven't been able to get much of anything into you while you've been out."

As he rose, Meryell croaked, "You don't have to babysit me, Cullen. I can..." She stopped as he pressed a finger to her lips and resisted the temptation to taste him because he wasn't wearing those _fucking gloves_ of his. His skin was even warmer than it had been that night when he'd joined her on the barrels and she wanted _more_. Maker's swollen _prick_ , she really needed to take a man to bed.

The problem was the only man she really wanted in Haven was far too good for her.

"It's not babysitting," he said gently, removing his hand quickly as a blush rose up his neck, a sight she could see much easier without the fur in the way. "I _want_ to be here."

He left before she could say anything else and Meryell let out a little huff of breath after he was gone. Part of her wanted to dance because all signs said he _wanted her_ but the jaded half of her took a swift blade to that optimism. Cullen was merely being _kind_ and kindness didn't mean that he cared for her in any way bedsides friendship.

As she continually reminded herself, good men didn't fuck knife-eared bitches. It had been proven to her time and time again as well.

Wiggling her shoulders experimentally as a distraction, she slowly pulled her left arm out from underneath the blankets to get a look at it, noting absently that she was wearing only her small clothes and a loose shift that didn't fall much lower than her breasts. There was a line of freshly healed pink running from her wrist to her elbow and she could feel it stretch as she bent her arm to get a look at it. She wondered if the muscle had been damaged and if she was going to have to work it back up to strength.

As the door opened against, Meryell practically threw her arm down onto the bed in a sudden fit of absurd panic and immediately regretted _everything_. Pain lanced through her arm but it was blessedly not the pain that the mark spawned. No, it was just the normal pain of healing muscle and flesh but it still fucking hurt.

Blinking past the sudden tears in her eyes, she frowned as Varric entered her cabin with a tray balanced in one hand and a book tucked under his arm. He grinned as he saw her and said, "Special delivery courtesy of Curly. Hot tea and broth straight from the kitchen. He got dragged into that mess in the Chantry and I offered to bring this to you."

The dwarf sat the tray and book down on the small table near the door then moved towards her. "Come on, Swears," he said warmly though she could read _strain_ in all of his bearing. "You've got to sit up to eat."

Grunting as he flipped her blankets down - which took Cullen's fur away from her - she grumbled, "I can fucking sit up on my damned own, Varric." As soon as she shifted her left arm and put the slightest pressure on it, she deemed that statement utterly fucking false. Varric wasn't having _no_ for an answer anyway so she just let his large hands move her about and when she was finally resettled, he tucked the blankets back up around her waist. Making sure that the ruff of Cullen's fur was right up against her belly, which was bared by her shift.

She froze, staring at him in terror, and he blinked at her in honest confusion. "Swears...what's wrong?"

"You know," she breathed, not able to get anything else out.

"No, sweetheart, you're going to have to enlighten me because I'm completely in the dark here."

Meryell swallowed and curled her fingers into the warm fur as she bit out, " _Cullen_ , Varric."

The dwarf blinked for a moment then stepped close to the bed, one of his hands large enough to cover both of hers as his other hand curled around her upper arm. "Curly likes you, Swears, anyone can see that," he said gently. He then frowned at her and breathed, "And that scares the _shit_ out of you. Why? Come on, Swears, talk to Uncle Varric. What's wrong?"

She tried to keep the words in, wanted to sew her own lips shut to keep them inside but she was _weak_.

Bowing her head so she didn't have to look him in the eyes, she breathed, "Good men don't fuck knife-ears."

Varric growled and then the hand that had been on her arm was on her chin, callused fingers gently forcing her head back up and around to look at him. Meryell expected to see what she always saw in people's eyes - that _yes, that's true_ \- but there was only a painful sadness in his. His voice was low and rough with emotion as he asked, "Who told you that, sweetheart?"

She didn't remember the first time she'd heard it. Had it been Brandon, who she'd lost her maidenhead to at fourteen after a successful theft had left them giddy? Camden after she'd joined the company, who'd bitten her ear so hard he left a permanent scar and made her flinch from men touching them? The nameless Orlesian stable boy she'd ridden in the hay loft after her first solo job for the company, who'd made her _fly_ before bringing her crashing down by calling her _rabbit?_ Or did it trace back to her father and her younger self the first time she bled and his gently spoken words about how shemlen were not to be trusted with her heart because they wouldn't understand her?

Meryell stared at him open mouthed with not one answer to give.

A heavy weight pressed down on the side of the bed then and she was pulled into Varric's chest. He wasn't as warm as Cullen but he was _steady_ and _solid_ and _Andraste's_ _dripping cunt_ she needed someone like that at her back. She sank against him, tucking her head underneath his chin and loosened one hand from the fur to curl her fingers into the fabric of his tunic. One of his hands cupped her bare back at the base of her spine - yet somehow wasn't sexual _at all_ \- while the other ran lightly up and down her back over the surface of the shift as he started to hum randomly. He couldn't keep a tune probably to save his _life_ but the vibration rumbling through her via contact was soothing. It reminded her of being sung to sleep by her father when she was still a little girl.

After a moment Meryell asked softly, "You hug a lot of half naked women, Varric? You seem very _comfortable_."

He chuckled then replied, "Remind me to tell you a few of the more salacious stories about Hawke. _The real stories_."

" _Real stories?_ You mean to say that _you_ , Varric Tethras, _lied_ in one of your books about how events happened?"

Varric _did_ laugh at that one. "Didn't I tell you I'm prone to extragant lies?" he asked. Then he gently pushed her back so he could look down at her, saying, "No matter what the rest of them say or what _anyone_ says, there's nothing wrong with you, Swears. And we may not be your company but Curly and I've got your back."

Tears welled up in her eyes at his words and Meryell dove back into his arms to hide her face against his tunic. He just hugged her close and after a moment she was able to mutter, "I'm usually not like this."

"Chuckles said you'd probably be acting a little strange when you woke up. You lost a lot of blood in that fight, Swears. Scared a few years off my life too when he wasn't sure you were going to make it for a bit."

She flicked her ears in annoyance at owing the other elf her life _again_. Sighing, she muttered, "I'll actually have to _thank_ the _masvian_. Fuck me."

Varric chuckled, a deep rumble that shook her whole body, and said, "I think Curly would be upset if I had my merry way with you, Swears."

Meryell felt the heat of a blush in her cheeks at the thought of someone - especially _Cullen_ \- being _upset_ about her sleeping with someone else. She'd never had someone _want_ her before, not anyone that she was _attracted_ to. There had been elves in the past who'd made approaches and tried to win her over but she'd learned what she craved in a man when she was still a skint-kneed alienage brat. It had been a South Reach guardsman, one of a pair on the usual rounds in the alienage, and she'd been thirteen sitting in the low branches of the _vhenadahl_. He had been young, _handsome_ , all broad shoulders and height, and he'd smiled up at her as he caught sight of her in the tree. No elf had caught her eye since that day.

But she had only given her body to men that wanted only the one tumble since that day. She had perhaps listened _too well_ to her father that once. Now she wasn't sure how to break herself from thinking that she was only worth the time of those who used her.

Her whole body shook and Meryell slowly pushed away from Varric, leaning back to she could see his eyes. "How," she began and the words tried to catch in her throat but she wouldn't let them, "how do I do this?"

"I'm afraid I don't have an answer to that one, Swears. I've written a few romances but real life never turns out that neat." He smiled then and said, "Just be yourself, sweetheart. Curly likes it, swears and all."

Varric's face then went stern as he gently grasped her chin and darkly rumbled, "And do me a favor, Swears. I don't want to _ever_ hear that slur come out of your mouth again. No thinking it either."

Meryell nodded and murmured, "I'll try."

"Good." Varric then tilted his head towards the tray and said, "Now that that's settled, you're going to eat. I think if I let you go hungry after all the work he did getting it, Curly would gladly set me up in place of one of the Seeker's training dummies. I even brought a book to read to you."

At the thought of him all trussed up and wide-eyed in place of one of Cassandra's much abused dummies, a laugh burst out of her. She shook her head and softly asked, "What fine novel did you bring to read me, Master Tethras?"

"None of _that_ now or you don't get to hear a word," replied Varric with a waggling finger as he extricated himself from the bed and helped her scoot back to her spot against the headboard. He brought the tray over and carefully situated it on her lap before he retreated to the chair that had been moved next to her bed - likely by Cullen or Chuckles originally - settling himself in it with book in hand. "As for what it is, only the _best_ for you, Swears."

Meryell smiled then leaned forward, inhaling deeply the steam still rising from the bowl. After a bit of finagling with her weak arm, she managed to lift it and drank straight from it. The taste reminded her of the alienage when it had been _home_ and not just somewhere with a roof and a bed. After a moment she pulled it away from her mouth and asked, " _Tale of the Champion_?" with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"Much as I like to talk about my own work, no. I actually delved into the Chantry's library and found a copy of the _Adventures of the Black Fox_ , so I figured I should rescue it before someone decided it wasn't fit to be anywhere near the building."

She'd read all of the adventures years ago when she'd snitched a copy of one of the variations of the book from a South Reach shop and owned two actually honest copies that she'd purchased with her own coin during a job in Val Royeux and somewhere in the backend of Antiva the whole once the company had gone there. All of those copies were, of course, back at the company headquarters in the Free Marches, nice and secure in her chest.

She wouldn't tell Varric any of that, of course.

Smiling to herself, Meryelle finished her broth and water as Varric began reading and just pushed the tray down to the end of the bed instead of interrupting him. As the first of the Black Fox's adventures came to an end, her eyes started to droop and she slowly inchwormed her way down the bed, careful to not put too much pressure on her marked arm. It didn't take long after that for sleep to take her, the warmth of the bed and the rumble of Varric's voice lulling her easily down into dreams, and she woke later to a different voice reading the book aloud.

Blinking slowly at Cullen, who had replaced Varric in the chair next to the bed and was actually _not_ wearing his armor, Meryell held her breath. He looked remarkably relaxed sitting there in just trousers and a roughspun tunic that looked like it had seen better days, one leg bent to prop a dust covered boot on his knee. Judging by the renewed light in the room, he'd stirred up the hearth when he'd come in and the golden glow of the light washed over him, highlighting him from behind. She flicked her eyes up to his face, watching the movement of his scar and mouth as he read for a moment, then trailed her gaze on upward and... _oh_.

 _That_ was why Varric called him Curly.

Instead of the neat, ordered lines his hair was normally in, there was a _riot_ of blond curls on his head. It made his hair seem shorter in comparison to its usual length and she could see why he had tamed it into a different look as it wasn't very becoming of the Commander of the Inquisition to have the equivalent of a _girl's_ golden ringlets. Not with a soldier's eye for personal pride anyway; her own mercenary bred eye was more focused on _how well you did your damned job_ and less _how good you looked doing it_. To each their own though.

Meryell smiled and nuzzled her nose into his fur, which had been tucked up around her face snugly, before saying softly, "I think I like your hair better this way, Cullen."

He startled, the boot propped on his knee bouncing to the floor as he sat up straight while snapping the book closed. A hand rose to touch his head and he groaned before muttering, " _Maker's breath_."

"Oh _come on_. You're a soldier, you can curse better than _that_."

Cullen flashed a disgruntled look towards her but she'd succeeded at her goal: distracting him from worrying about those pretty curls. After a moment he intoned shortly, "Maker's. Fucking. Balls," while a _fine_ embarrassed flush crawled up the back of his neck and turned his ears red. It was _adorable_ and hearing the word _fuck_ come out of his mouth made her toes curl with want.

Grinning proudly at him, Meryell chirped, "Good effort but needs some work before it's up to my considerable standards."

"I bow to the thief's greater experience in such a field," intoned Cullen in a purr that would have made her knees wobble if she was standing. He then scooted forward in the chair and asked, "Are you alright?"

"Sore," she replied, "but I'll live thanks to Chuckles. Though I think you still owe me a fucking explanation."

He inclined his head slightly at that and proceeded to explain in the quick, simple words of a man used to giving orders quickly that the letter she'd intended to have delivered to Folke via the Redcliffe contact had been discovered when Chuckles and Cassandra had stripped her out of her bloody leathers. She closed her eyes at that information, cursing her own foolish pride that had had her tucking it close to her heart, and then sighed as she buried her nose in Cullen's fur. The spymaster had all of the information she needed now to find _anything_ on Meryell, including tracing her back to South Reach as she signed her letters with her surname. Which meant they could track her so long as she kept ties to her company or to her own name.

All of her plans for escaping after the Breach was closed were as good as fucking dust.

"Damn the Maker's soggy asshole to the fucking Void," she cursed. "Fucking shite."

"I'm fairly certain you can't do that," Cullen said gently, causing her to open her eyes and look at him. He was smiling down at her as he continued, "Though given what I've learned about you, Meryell, I'm certain you'd try to make it happen."

"Fucking _succeed_ too," she managed to hiss triumphantly despite not feeling it at all. It felt like there was a sudden void in her chest, like a sucking wound that was dragging her inevitably under.

His smile remained and he reached out with a tentative hand to brush back a lock of her hair, his fingers coming close to but not quite touching her ears. "I believe you," he intoned softly. She shivered at the contact and this time when that phrase echoed through her mind it hurt a little less. Still there, still causing her caution, but she held on to what Varric had said about the man next to her liking her. Cullen pulled away then, settling back into the chair and idly waggling the book at her. "Shall I continue?"

"Please," she replied and didn't even _try_ to hide the choked emotion in her voice, a mix of the void in her chest and the war against herself.

Cullen just nodded then scooted his chair closer, finding his place again before he laid his right hand on the edge of the bed, palm up in silent invitation. As he started to read, Meryell slid her own hand out from underneath the covers to grip it tightly, clinging to the contact like it was a safe port in a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvhen/Elven Translations: :**
> 
> masvian : combination of masa (ass) + vian (hole)


	5. "Now that we're done with the yelling part of the program, let's start this over and I'll answer one question at a time."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell gives a few answers on her past - just the ones she's willing to part with - to the advisors and Cassandra while laying down some ground rules for her staying with the Inquisition. After that, she goes to the tavern with Cullen for a drink and writes a letter.

Meryell stood silently on the other side of the war table from the leaders of the Inquisition, her arms crossed and eyes focused into a hard gaze that flicked from one to the other as they spoke. The spymaster was furious that something had gotten past her, Josephine was worried about the few allies they had balking at being tied to a mercenary group (even though they weren't _at fucking all_ ), Cassandra was bristling because she saw it as _betrayal_ , and Cullen was eerily silent. Well, eerily silent to everyone _but_ her as they'd discussed how he should act at this meeting while she was still stuck in bed regaining her strength.

She dearly wanted to just scream at them but she waited. Waited until the worst of their anger burned out, until they thought her perhaps a little cowed by their rage. She was _good_ at waiting.

When they finally _shut up_ , Meryell looked at Cullen, who gave her a subtle little nod, and then she took a breath.

Calm. Keep your head. Treat it like a job.

If she treated it like a job, she _probably_ wouldn't attempt to stab anything.

"Now that we're done with the yelling part of the program," she began snidely, "let's start this over and I'll answer one question at a time. Josephine, _you_ can start."

The ambassador looked a little shocked but she quickly recovered and tapped her fingers against whatever paper she had sitting atop the writing board that was her almost constant companion. "Your letter," she said softly, "was addressed to a man named Folke. We've come to understand that he and yourself are members of the mercenary company known as the Fangs of Vimmark."

Meryell arched an eyebrow because there wasn't a _fucking question_ there and nodded slowly.

"May I inquire as to how many years you've served with them?"

"Not something you can find out?" she asked with a smirk, cocking her head slightly towards the spymaster. Honestly, she probably _shouldn't_ be prodding the other woman but if there was one thing she hated it was people who worked solely in secrets alone. Anyone who delved that deep into other people's shit had the tendency to not be all that stable and what she'd seen so far of the spymaster spoke of a woman treading the line between _killing for good reasons_ and _killing blindly for the cause_. It was one step from religious zealotry and she'd rather kill a zealot before they got the idea to stab her in the back.

Josephine flashed a tense smile as the spymaster stood in silent reply and hurriedly said, "We attempted to contact the Fangs but, upon our asking about you, they returned only silence."

Shrugging, Meryell explained, "Normal protocol. I was out on my own on a job and they probably think I'm fucking dead given that the job involved getting into the Conclave. That and the company doesn't just blindly trust anyone asking about our own." She shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet then back to her heels before she continued, "As to how long I've served, over ten years. I joined them in 9:30 just before the cock-up at Ostagar wiped out the King's army. Did one job in Ferelden then we high tailed it out of the fucking country."

"You were lucky," commented Cullen quietly, barely enough of a vocalization for anyone else to hear. Meryell had _elf_ ears, though, and she'd honed her hearing over the years to make sure she heard everything that she could. He sounded... _wounded_. She filed the comment quietly away for later and cocked her head at Josephine.

"That is all for now. Thank you, Herald."

Growling at the title, she tilted her head towards Cassandra.

The Seeker snorted before asking, "Who is this _Folke_ you wrote to?"

"My...mentor...for lack of a better term," Meryell replied. "He's a hedge mage."

"A hedge mage!"

She could see Cullen shift his weight at Cassandra's repetition of the term and sighed _._ "He has enough magic to be dangerous but not enough to bring demons down on his head. Just enough to tweak the nose of the Maker, as he likes to say." It wasn't like Folke being a hedge mage was a big deal. Even with her avoiding his smug ass for the most part, she'd gotten the fact that Chuckles hadn't been trained by the Dalish or a Circle, which also put him into the particular category.

Cullen actually snorted at the turn of phrase and seemed to relax a little - but _enough_ \- and said, "Scholars call it _arcanist_ _derangement_ when one is a hedge mage. It's claimed by and large by many of them and the Order that those with it often have short lives."

"If Folke were here he'd tell you that's straight bullshit," commented Meryell. "And then he'd go on a long ass fucking spiel about all the ways that the Chasind and Avvar deal with magic better than we do and just make you want to stab him in the throat so he'll shut up."

“Common topic?” he asked with a hint of a smile.

“ _Favorite_ topic.” Meryell then looked at Cassandra again and asked, “You want to know anything else about him? Favorite food? Whether he sleeps naked? The size of his co-"

“ _No,_ ” interrupted the Seeker fiercely.

Smirking, she turned her attention to the spymaster and said coldly, “Your turn.”

The other woman didn't bat an eye at her tone but just stood there _looking_ at her with those hooded blue eyes. Then she smiled - and it was a _cold_ smile, the sort that sent ice down the spine - and asked in her lilting Orlesian voice, “Do you still plan to abandon us once the Breach is sealed?”

“I'll remind you,” replied Meryell with a clenched jaw, “that you and Cassandra told me I could leave whenever I liked. If the Breach is closed, you don't need this shit on my hand anymore, right?” When no one immediately answered her, she snarled, “ _Right?!_ ”

“We cannot answer that question because we do not have an answer,” pointed out Cassandra. She then planted her hands on the table and leaned forward, dark eyes accusing. “And what if rifts remain after it closes? You would merely abandon those who suffer from their presence simply because you feel the need to run away?”

“ _Fenedhis_ _!_ ” snarled Meryell, her temper bucking against its leash but she held it. “I am no _hal’am’shirelan_! I owe you and your Inquisition _nothing_! You imprisoned me, declared me something I most certainly am fucking _not_ without even waiting for me to wake up, _begged me_ and _blackmailed me_ at the same _fucking time_ to stay and help you, and when you find out what I am you sneer behind my back.” She straightened to her full height, which wasn't all that impressive but Folke had taught her how to make her presence _felt_ when it needed to be _._ And she remembered, oh _fuck_ did she remember, the words her father had said every night with her, their own little prayer as he had abandoned the Creators and both had never deigned to believe in the Maker like her mother had. _We are the last of the_ _Elvhenan_ _, and never again shall we submit._ They were spawned from Dalish words, from a world she'd only known bits and pieces of thanks to her father, but they had made them _theirs_. She would not bend a knee to these _fools_ who couldn't even deal with her fucking past. Not without her legs being _fucking broken._

“I will not stay,” she growled, “where I am by and large not wanted. I will return to my _family_ , because make no mistake that my company is just that, and we will close the rifts ourselves before I do such.”

Cullen looked almost _stricken_ at her words and she was _so close_ to taking them back. He was one of the two things actually bearable in this situation and she wanted... _Maker’s aching cock_ , she actually _wanted_ to see if that unspoken thing between them could be something more. If _she_ could be something more than a momentary tumble in a man's bed.

But she _would not_ , _could not_ , stay where she wasn't wanted. She'd done it from eleven to fifteen and she had sworn the day she walked out of South Reach at Folke's side that she never would again.

Silence reigned for a long moment then the spymaster said in a low voice, “Then we should work to trust each other better.” She'd expected those words of Josephine, of Cassandra, but _not_ of the cold-tempered keeper of secrets. “I suspect,” she continued mildly, blue eyes a little less dark than they had been before, “that we sometimes forget that you are a person and not merely a symbol. The exception being our Commander, of course.”

Cullen coughed at the mention of his name and lifted a leather-clad hand to rub the back of his neck. Meryell _knew_ that gesture now and knew too that, though she couldn't see it because of the fur being in the way, he was blushing in that exact spot.

For some reason that motion - all too familiar since he'd spent the majority of his free hours with her recently - calmed her temper. Taking a deep breath, Meryell let her arms fall apart and leaned into the war table, looking steadily from one of them to the other, starting with the spymaster and working her way down to Cullen. "You want my help," she began, "you deal with my shit. You deal with my past, my language, my job, and my fucking family without saying _shit_. Non-negotiable. This is _who I fucking am_ and I will not change it unless I feel the need to damn well do so. _Now..._ " Trailing off for a moment, she turned her attention to Josephine, "I'll pen another letter to Folke about this shit, clear up me being marked dead in the rolls. My first suggestion would be if you want to keep control of how people find out about my past, we hire my company."

"Of course," said the ambassador with a sharp nod. "I imagine even with one of their own working with us, they would not deign to give their skill over to us freely."

"Fuck no. Arnald's a decent man but he doesn't do charity work. He _might_ give a discount from the usual wage of hiring the whole company because it's me and _no one's_ hired the whole company in years."

Josephine's eyes gleamed in anticipation. "I look forward to conducting business with him. I assume he leads your company?"

Meryell nodded then rotated a finger in the air before pointing it at Cassandra, having counted Josephine's inquiry as her question. "Your turn."

"We are still playing this incessant game?" the Seeker asked with a sigh. After a moment of silence in response she said, " _Fine_. You have said you were born in the South Reach alienage. What of your childhood?"

The question was like a sucker punch, burying itself under her ribs and burrowing up into her heart. Meryell had to take a deep breath, fighting against the imaginary pain, before she spoke.

"I was born in 9:15 during Drakonis, the first birth to survive that year in the alienage. My childhood was...normal...to what one might find in any alienage. In 9:26, a coughing sickness took hold of the city but it _festered_ in the alienage. My mother died of it and, after it was gone, my father was murdered during the recovery for his coin. The _hahren_ took me in but I was angry, bitter, always fighting him, so I joined a gang at thirteen. Two years later Folke and his partner hired us to help them gather information for a job and then gave us the recruitment spiel after we hauled their asses out of the jail. I've been with the company ever since.”

That was the least she would tell the three women. None of them were trusted enough yet to know any more and she wouldn't say anything unless confronted about it. Though there was probably little that even the spymaster would be able to find given that the only records kept in alienages were births, deaths, and marriages. They would find nothing about who her father or mother were unless those that knew them still lived and those were few and far between.

It was more comforting a thought than the one she'd had upon waking days ago, when fear had blinded her and made her forget. Her life with the Fangs was open. The years before that still had a chance to escape a close perusal.

Shaking the thoughts off, Meryell looked to the spymaster again. The other woman just smiled, saying, “You have already answered the only question I wished to ask,” and she filed that statement securely under _creepy_.

“Anyone else then?”

“Not at this moment, Herald,” Josephine replied, ignoring her immediate mutter about finding a _new fucking title_ , and continued, “Since you have been ill there has been some news. The clerics are gathering in Val Royeaux and Mother Giselle believes you should attend to speak to them.”

“You want _me_ in the same general area of a bunch of piss skirts who'd rather see me in chains or dead? Ambassador, I might end up killing them on _principle_.”

“If they're like Chancellor Roderick,” Cullen commented with just the slightest upturn of a smirk, “I doubt anyone would mourn them. We'd have to find some way to get you out of jail, of course.”

Meryell grinned at him while the other women looked more than a little confused. Obviously he didn't show his sense of humor to a great deal of people. "I'll save forcing the Inquisition having to break me out of jail for when it wouldn't be Val Royeaux's dungeons. Y'ever been down there? Utter fucking piss. Now _Ostwick_ , they have a _nice_ jail."

Josephine managed to look pale despite her dark skin at that comment and asked, "Just how many times have you been arrested?"

"More than you want me to tell you. So," clapping her hands together, Meryell asked, "when do we leave?"

"When you are well, Herald,” replied the ambassador in a delicate tone. “Solas made it very clear that it would take at least three weeks from your waking for you to be travel ready. Luckily for us, the clerics convene in five weeks, which leaves enough days for your journey to Val Royeaux with extra to play with.”

“Fucking Chuckles,” growled Meryell but she wasn't going to openly argue that she wasn't in top form. It had taken several days for her to even get the energy to get out of bed and she grew tired incredibly quickly still. She'd discovered that fact by trying to practice her fighting forms to strengthen her arm yesterday and had ended up in the floor, having to crawl back into her bed. She just wasn't going to tell Chuckles that he was right. _Thanks for saving my ass_ , sure. _You were right about me being as weak as a fucking kitten_ was right out.

Sighing, she nodded and said, “Fine.”

“Good. We shall take the time you are recovering to plan.” Cassandra crossed her arms then and asked the room, “I believe that is all for today, correct?”

“Yes,” replied the spymaster as she leaned a hip against the table. Meryell caught her eyes as the woman continued, “I await your letter to your company, Herald.”

“I'll have one in a few days,” she replied in a clipped tone while narrowing her eyes. This time she was going to write the damned thing in the company codes which annoyed the _shit_ out of her. She _loathed_ the fucking codes the company had developed decades ago during their inception that allowed them to pass missives without worry of someone intercepting delicate information. The spymaster reading mail that she didn't want her to read wasn't going to happen again, so she'd suffer.

Trying to shake the sudden anger off, Meryell looked at Cullen and asked in a more pleasant voice, “Good ser, may I ask for an escort to the tavern?” She ignored the odd looks the question garnered her from the three women, choosing to focus solely him. Her eyes focused on the way his scar twitched with his lip, how his eyes glinted with some silent bit of humor - _what had he thought of there_ , she did wonder - then he was coming around the table with his arm canted towards her.

He inclined his head just slightly and murmured in a low voice pitched for _her_ ears alone, "Of fucking course." And he didn't even blush while saying it.

Bursting into laughter at him playing _her vulgarity_ against her playing _his politeness_ , Meryell locked her arm into his and they strode out of the war room without another word. As soon as the door closed behind them, she sighed and leaned a little more into him as a sudden wave of exhaustion rushed up on her. Leather-clad fingers pressed warmly against her hand and then Cullen asked, "Are you certain you want to go to the tavern?"

"Certain as fuck," she replied, trying to sound sure. "Just... _tired_. Fuck, I hate being this tired."

"You shouldn't fight it, Meryell," he said gently as he pushed one of the doors of the Chantry open and they stepped out into the slightly chilly night air. "It's your body trying to tell you what it needs."

Huffing out an exasperated breath, she muttered, "I know." Shaking her head, she turned to look up at him. "I don't deal with being sick well. Not even when my parents were alive."

He hummed in response and they walked in silence for a moment, making their way through the village towards the tavern, before he spoke again. "Your parents," he said, "you've never spoken of them before."

"They're not a topic I like to think about often." Closing her eyes, Meryell impulsively leaned her head against his arm, thankful that he'd apparently decided to forgo his armor today and was wearing only his coat with it's fur over his tunic and trousers. Speaking softly, she continued, "I watched my mother die, shaking and choking on her own spit, unable to do anything but sit in the furthest corner of our home and hope that I wasn't next. There weren't even any tears left at that point. I'd spent them all when the Arl sent men in who piled up the bodies and burned them in a corner of the alienage days before. There weren't even any left weeks later when I found my father dead only a few feet from our door.”

His arm tensed underneath her cheek as she spoke and she was certain now that it wasn't where he'd seen the conversation going. When she got tired, however, she had a tendency of getting _melancholy_. Another reason why she hated to be at the point of exhaustion.

Cullen opened the door of the tavern then and the soldiers who were in residence greeted them with a hearty call of their titles before they drifted back to what they had been doing. Only one more reason why she preferred spending her time with these men and women rather than some of the others in the budding Inquisition. They knew when to _keep their fucking mouths shut_.

"Here, sit," he offered, pulling out one of the two chairs against the wall at one of the few corner tables with his free hand and delicately steering her into it. Meryell fell gracelessly as directed and she could see it made Cullen smile as she tilted her head back while he scooted her chair across the floor so it was closer to the table. "A drink for the thief? And perhaps whatever Flissa has in that pot hanging in the hearth?"

"Please. You've drunk with me enough now to know my preference."

She leaned her elbows on the table, chin propped against both hands, and watched him as he crossed the room. He spoke freely to every soldier - and the few scouts who were also present, she now saw - as he went, sure and steady as you please. She envied that poise and wondered if it had come naturally to him or learnt during his years as a templar. What she had was mostly what the Antivans in the company called _bravado_ and what everyone else had dubbed _the_ _brassest_ _set of balls you've ever seen on a woman_. And half of _that_ was fueled by that angry little girl from the alienage who'd had her family stolen from her.

 _Fucking melancholy_.

Meryell sighed, rubbing her fingers into her temples, then sat up as Cullen returned with two mugs topped with froth and a bowl of steaming stew. Her stomach growled as the delicious smell of boiled vegetables and meat hit her nose and immediately dug in as soon as the bottom hit the table. He laughed as he took the seat directly next to her at the other wall-backed chair - a habit they'd discovered when they'd shared the first night of many once he'd actually taken her up on the offer of drinking with her before she'd gone into the Hinterlands a month ago - and leaned back to sip at whatever he'd gotten to drink.

She finished the stew in what was probably record time, draining even the juices left in the bottom of the bowl, and then promptly scooted her chair closer to him. Snatching up her mug and taking a sip, Meryell curled her feet up into the seat and leaned sideways into Cullen's chest with an audible thump, drawing a chuckle out of him. The warm, heavy weight of his arm fell across her shoulders and he laughed before softly saying, "This will no doubt spawn even more rumor, dear thief."

She resisted the urge to shiver and laid her head back against his shoulder, smiling up at him. They had sat like this only a few times but she could foresee it becoming more common. His staying with her during his free hours lately had prompted a great deal of touching between them. It was never anything untoward or too forward, just her reaching out for comfort or him somehow anticipating that she needed touch. She'd never have taken him for that much of a touch-heavy type but sometimes it felt _hungry_. Like he was a man who'd starved himself of human contact.

Which, to be honest, she was the same way.

And somehow - she wasn't _quite_ sure how and didn't want to examine it too closely - this, whatever _this_ was, was working. She still wanted him and sometimes she caught the tail-end of a guilty stare as his eyes flicked away and came so _fucking close_ to saying something but she knew enough about herself (and made enough guesses about him) to know it wasn't the time. Cullen was, for now, her friend and that was enough.

He was the one thing in Haven she could honestly trust that she could put her back up against and not be let down.

"So?" Meryell chirped with a smile as her head lolled against his shoulder. "We know what we fucking are, yeah? Let 'em gab. They need to see us being people for the same reason as I don't care about them calling me fucking Herald."

Cullen's face was slightly flushed - whether with drink or embarrassment was a mystery - but he nodded just the same. His arm tightened around her shoulders and he hummed before replying, "Yes. We know what we are."

"And what _are_ we, Cullen?"

He laughed then turned his head to press a slightly messy kiss against her temple, making her flush with a mix of sultry heat and friendly warmth at the gesture.

"Fucking _amazing_."

"Damn right we are," she growled as she clinked her mug against his. "To being fucking amazing."

* * *

_Dearest Asshole,_

_I'm fucking alive, you twat, so take me off the damned dead roll. You know I don't appreciate you doing shit without asking my permission._

_You and the company probably haven't heard of the Inquisition or the Herald of Andraste yet other than the letters they sent. Well, fun news, I'm the one carrying the latter title. You're probably laughing your fucking head off at anyone putting a religious title to me, so take a minute before you blow your heart, old man._

_Short story, shit went cock-up at the Conclave. Arnald’s going to have to return the up front pay to our client from the coffers ’cause it and all my gear went up in flames with everything else. If he bitches, tell him it was the price for me not being fucking dead._

_I'd tell you more but the Inquisition has a spymaster who handles the birds and I'm hooked to town from an injury so I can't reach our contact in Redcliffe. You know I hate these fucking codes. Cramps my damn hand. I'll fill you in on the whole bit of nugshit the next time I see you, which'll be hopefully soon._

_Don't twist Arnald's arm too hard getting him to accept the ambassador's offer of employ, old man. You'll hurt his manly feelings._

_Oh, and bring my shit with you?_

_Fuck you, Poppet_

* * *

_Poppet,_

_I ought to wring your neck bloody, you little shit. You know I wouldn't have supported the captain adding you to the dead unless I was certain you were supposed to be there. I fucking searched for you, trying to trace your charm. Gil and Demut did too._

_You'd be surprised what the company's heard. Captain's a little wary of accepting the offer given what Boots rambled on one night about the history of the Inquisition but he's going to do it anyway. Coin's coin, as we say. And it's you vouching, girlie, so Arnald's inclined to listen. He did, in fact, bitch about having to give away coin though._

_As for them calling you the Herald of Andraste, who thought up that piece of buggery? Obviously they don't know you well, my girl._

_Now, I'm holding you to telling me the whole story when I see you next. Right after I squeeze the sodding life out of you. Don't scare me like that again, Poppet._

_And, yes, I'll bring your shit. Fucking things I do for you._

_Your Dearest Asshole_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvhen/Elven Translations:**
> 
> fenedhis : shit, fuck  
> hal'am'shirelan : deserter  
> 


	6. "We try to hide the darkest parts of ourselves from those we care about. I struggle with the same thing."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen thinks upon his relationship with Meryell as she leaves for Val Royeaux and then gets to meet her family when the Fangs of Vimmark arrive earlier than expected. Later the advisors meet to greet the Fangs' Captain which prompts a semi-fight, some threats, and Cullen realizing that it is going to feel like much longer than three or four weeks until Meryell returns.

Roughly three weeks after everything had been settled in the Chantry, he watched her ride out of Haven under her own power again with Cassandra and Varric alone at her back - because they dared not take Solas with them to Val Royeaux as an open apostate. And Cullen still didn't know what word to put to what's spawned between them since she arrived in Haven three months ago.

It's a friendship but...it's _more_ than that.

During those first few weeks of her being in Haven after their initial conversation, they'd had drinks several times after she'd coaxed him into the first. He'd learned the crude (but never _cruel_ ) tint to her sense of humor over Ferelden ales and Anders whiskey during that time and become comfortable enough to gift her with a few comments that showed his own. Tales of her company - but never of _her past_ except in the vaguest of terms - had spilled from her lips and he'd even told a few of his own stories from the rare happy moments he'd had within the Order. She'd given him a handful of recommendations one night on an alternate method of handling some matters with his men, things she'd learned the hard way in her first years with her company she'd said, and he'd taken them to heart since not all of those under his command now were templars . They had talked and talked and _talked_ and sometimes just sat in companionable silence in the tavern, drinking whatever they chose that night while watching the other patrons mill about in their own little worlds.

Then she'd disappeared for a month with little between other than the curse filled reports she sent back in - he'd often had a laugh at those with her notations about _fuck this merchant, he's a twat_ or _why are there so many damned fucking bears in these woods_ . And he'd _missed her_ with a fierceness that stole his breath the night he'd realized he was expecting her at his tent, teasing him out for another drink with her, and known a moment later that it wasn't coming.

It wasn't just blind attraction was what he had realized in that moment. Not just the idle infatuation he'd started to believe it was, like that he'd held for Kath Surana before his whole world had dissolved into flames and death and nightmares all those years ago. That was perhaps what had terrified him a little in the darkest hours of the night, that he'd thought of her like Surana who had haunted his dreams for so many years before the last dregs of youthful attraction had burned away against the heat of his rage.

Meryell wasn't anything like Surana anyway.

Kath had been pale and lithe, a tiny little thing with big solemn gray eyes and pale golden hair that fell in long waves down her shoulders who he probably could have lifted with one hand. His nineteen year-old self had thought once that she would break under too much pressure but he'd never known the truth of that except in his nightmares, where he tried again and again to strangle the memory of the demon that had worn her face and failed, because she'd been one of the first mages to die. Recalling finding her broken body in the library curled around an apprentice she'd tried to protect had been the only thing that had saved him during those days.

Meryell, on the other hand, was short but she wasn't _tiny_. A decade and some with a blade in either hand had turned her into a coil of muscle under sun-darkened skin, a bit of controlled fury and storm that lived behind a wicked smile and a sharp tongue. Her eyes, a copper flecked green that reminded him of the trees that had surrounded his parents home when the leaves began to turn for winter, were always sparking with that fire that was her own. She wore her dark brown, nearly black hair short, in a shaggy mop of hair that bore the distinctive signs of being cut with the blade of a dagger. And the him of now, all thirty years and too much blood and death that felt sometimes like it coated his lungs, was certain that he could never break her. It was more likely she'd break him first.

And then she'd come back from the Hinterlands, unconscious and bloody and _broken_ in the back of a wagon with Cassanda in a full fury that was focused on _Meryell_ , Solas nearly wrung out at the end of his magical capability from keeping her alive, and Varric with so many shadows in his eyes that for one moment he thought he was back in Kirkwall. Cullen hadn't even asked Cassandra what was wrong then. He'd shrugged off the shadows the dwarf brought, snapped something at Solas about lyrium and sleep, and then he'd carefully picked Meryell up and headed to her cabin.

All he'd had in his head then was that she was injured, his friend, his _whatever she was_ , was hurt and he didn't know for certain if the rest of those around them were going to keep her safe at that moment.

He'd seen her sorted into her bed himself, pointed Adan in her direction to see what little he could do since he was the only healer they had, and then stormed into the Chantry to find out what had happened since that was where Cassandra had headed. What had ensued after that between the four of them could only be described as a bloody row and he'd been honestly surprised that it didn't come down to blows. In the end Cullen had said his piece about the matter (which consisted of her past being her business) and then left the women to whatever they wanted. His focus in the days after that had been solely on Meryell and her recovery.

When she'd finally woken up, it had been a huge weight lifted off of his chest - even with the brief argument with Cassandra and the subsequent longer argument about what to do with the new information they knew about her that he'd gotten dragged into while trying to get Meryell something to eat. He'd stayed with her as often as he could while she recovered, usually just in the evenings when he was working on the day's paperwork, sharing various anecdotes about the day between reading sections from the _Adventures of the Black Fox_ after he was done. It wasn't until after she was up and around again, when they were heading to the tavern after the rather confrontational conversation in the Chantry that he realized how their relationship had changed in that time.

They were still in that zone that was designated as _friendship_ but they were very comfortable with each other for a pair that had only known each other for just past two months. Him offering her his hand that first night when she'd woken up and her taking it had _changed_ something. Suddenly she'd started reaching out to him at random moments and he found himself doing the same. After so many years of avoiding touch, he found himself _craving it_ from her. And it had been the most natural thing in the world to drop his arm around her shoulders when she'd leaned back against him in the tavern, all warm and safe and _decidedly not broken_.

In the three weeks after that conversation, they'd fallen back into their pattern of drinking together in the tavern on most nights. There were also other nights that he'd find her in his tent with a bottle she'd plundered from the tavern - usually Ferelden ale - and two of the tin cups that his soldiers used. Those nights were spent sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on his rug covered floor with their backs against his desk, quietly talking through the night in the darkness where few would disturb them. And there had been the bare handful of occasions where _he_ had been the one to procure their choice of drink for the night as well as the cups, waiting outside her cabin for her to arrive.

The talk he'd commented on happening was in full swing around Haven by the end of the first week but, as she'd noted, they knew what they were and the opinion of others mattered little in the grand scheme of things. Despite a lot of their behavior saying otherwise, they were just friends. Very _close_ friends but friends nonetheless.

No matter what he felt _personally_ , he wasn't going to allow that to scar that relationship.

And, as her friend, he was worried about her safety. It would take them six days to ride from Haven to Jader where they would be able to take ship, which would be roughly another four days for their arrival in Val Royeaux. None of that amount of travel was counting the possibility of bandits, the condition of Gherlen's Pass, the state of the Waking Sea at the time of year, or any other number of possible issues that could rise up. Not to mention the very people she was going to reluctantly talk to were calling for her head as a heretic.

Shaking his head, Cullen sighed and watched her little group until they had disappeared after taking a bend in the road that led out of Haven. He could do nothing now except pray for her safe return. It was harder than he'd expected, though, to turn away from the last place he'd seen her and to get back to work training their latest group of recruits.

Not even an hour later, he heard the sound of hoof beats on the road.

For a split second he thought it was them coming back but that was quickly cast aside because there was far too much noise. Three horses, even at full gallop, wouldn't make as much noise coming down the roadway as whoever was coming along now.

Orders were on the tip of his tongue, ready to snap out to his men for them to organize against a possible attack, when one of Leliana's scouts abruptly appeared at his elbow. "Ser!"

"Report," he growled. "Who's on the road?"

"Fairly large force, Commander, mostly horses with a few wagons - though those are further back. No banner but most of them are wearing badges of a tan field with what looks like a black crescent on it. We couldn't get too close with the trees so thin at the edge of the roadway to see much detail."

"Black crescent?" repeated Cullen. He then asked, "Upright, larger at the top and narrows to the bottom?"

"Yes, ser."

 _Fuck_.

"Go find Leliana and Josephine and tell them I need them on the field. Or, if they can't make that in time, in the Chantry in thirty minutes," he ordered. "Tell them the Fangs are here." When the scout hesitated, he bellowed, " _Now!_ "

As the young man bolted, Cullen sighed and lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. How ridiculous was it that an hour after Meryell had rode out of Haven, her company would come riding into town? Shaking his head, he waved at one of his lieutenants, Joane, who was standing nearby to take over the training. As soon as she stepped into place, he gripped the hilt of his sword and headed away from the training grounds to stand in the center of the road at the edge of what was ostensibly his domain.

The first of the company came around the turn in the road at an easy lope and as they approached, one of the riders in the lead held up a hand that had the rest slowing their mounts to a stop. That rider and three others continued forward from the group, heading towards him at a sedate pace. Cullen sensed someone stepping up into his personal space just behind his left shoulder and waited until they spoke to know who it was, preferring not to take his eyes off their newcomers.

"Figured since they have four coming, you should at least have someone behind you, old man," came Rylen's rakish voice from over his shoulder. "Your Herald would knife me in the night if I let anything happen to her favorite drinking partner."

Cullen snorted quietly at that, asking, "She tell you that herself?" Then he realized what Rylen had _called_ her and fought against narrowing his eyes in outrage. "And she isn't _mine_ , you sod."

He could practically _feel_ his friend's grin and sighed before focusing his attention away from the man standing at his back to those approaching, three of whom had dismounted a respectable distance away and left their mounts with the fourth while they moved forward. Now that they were closer he could make out a bit about their appearance and had a decent guess as to who they were. The man in the lead was older, perhaps in his early fifties judging by the silver in his short black hair, but obviously still fit by the shape of the well-used chainmail that he wore. He had the facial features that even Cullen recognized spoke of noble breeding and wore on his face what he vaguely recalled Leliana explaining once as a servant's mask, just enough to cover his eyes and the top part of his cheeks. This then was Arnald Seraine, leader of the Fangs of Vimmark and once a Lieutenant in the Imperial Army.

Meryell's commentary about the man painted him as the sort he'd like to know. Arnald had led the company since she'd joined it and it was his efforts that had turned it into what she knew of the Fangs of Vimmark. He was a man who insisted a job be done well, she'd told him, with no bloodshed unless necessary and no harm done to anyone uninvolved. Leliana, on the other hand, gave him a report of a cold man who ran his mercenary company with an iron fist. He'd also learned that the Seraines were an old minor noble family in Orlais but that Arnald, the second son of the previous generation, had been discharged from the Army after being accused of raping the daughter of a Comte during said noble's party. Of course, he'd asked Meryell about that particular incident and she'd gone into an angry spiel about the spymaster having to have her finger in everything before explaining that the spoiled daughter had wanted Arnald's attention, going to her father with a story of rape when he'd spurned her. So Arnald had been discharged from the Army and, despite believing his son, his father had disavowed him of his inheritance but had let him keep his name and the mark of his kin.

The woman on Arnald's right side was undoubtedly Dogtooth Zarru, his second in command. She was a tall, broad woman of undeterminable age who towered over both of her fellow mercenaries and would probably be close to Cullen's own height with her hair hanging in thick strands festooned with bright beads. Close-fitting armor of heavy iron hid most of her skin from sight but what he could see was marked with a myriad of tattoos in dark ink that just barely stood out from the dark color of her reddish-brown flesh. Even after Meryell had explained it, he still wasn't sure why she was called _Dogtooth_ by the company.

And it was Cullen's guess that the man on Arnald's left, who wore very light leathers with what was _obviously_ a dusky blue mage's coat thrown over them, was Folke . The man looked to be in his forties (which made Cullen feel a little _wrong_ for his interest in Meryell simply given her relationship with the man, despite the fact that she was only younger by four years) and had his thick black hair pulled back into a low tail at the base of his neck. There was an x-shaped scar across the man's right cheek, the lines badly puckered in the way that he knew told of a wound made with magebane on a blade and allowed to let fester. He'd seen it used to torture a mage once in Kirkwall just after the Qunari uprising and had forbidden its use after that - though few had actually obeyed that order since Meredith had promptly overridden him. It was a curious wound and made him wonder who exactly Folke had tangled with to receive it.

The trio stopped a full sword lunge length away from him and Arnald inclined his head respectfully before asking, "Commander Rutherford, I am to assume?" His accent was not as strongly Orlesian as it might have been in his youth, now scattered with different influences from all of the variety of people in his company, but it still had the even politeness of a noble education.

"I am," replied Cullen.

"Excellent. We were hoping it would be you we'd see first and not this Ambassador Montilyet who wrote to us with your offer of work." The man grinned rakishly before continuing, "I never had much love for nobles even when I was one. Now I'm certain you know my name already but manners are manners...and I dare say I don't want my mother, Maker rest her soul, rolling in her grave. I am Arnald Seraine, Captain of the Fangs of Vimmark. This lovely lady is Zarru, my second-in-command, and the grumpy looking gentleman trying to peer over your shoulder is Folke."

The man in question abruptly stopped arching up onto his toes, which brought a low chuckle from Rylen, and then Folke pointedly growled, "I'm sure he knows who I'm looking for."

"I do." Cullen then sighed and said, "Unfortunately, you've arrived just after she left. Meryell has gone to see to something of importance to the Inquisition in Val Royeaux and will be gone for at least a few weeks."

As Folke started to open his mouth, Cullen hurriedly continued with a slight smirk, "She bid me give _you_ something in particular, ser, when you arrived. A letter."

"Oh?" growled Folke. "Poppet has something so important to say to me that she can't even say it to my face? Well, come on then, _boy_ , let's have it."

Rylen made a distinctly un-Knight-Captain like noise from behind him and Cullen let his mouth twist into a full smirk as he did as requested, handing Folke the letter. He, of course, hadn't read the letter despite her leaving it unsealed because he respected her privacy but he could take an easy guess that whatever she wrote to Folke would be laden with curses.

The man immediately barked out a laugh as he flipped open the letter and shook his head, his expression going from grumpy to a more jovial one in an instant. He flicked the letter at Arnald and the man gave an imperious sigh before he read it, snorting before he folded it up and gave it back to the mage.

"That's certainly our girl," commented Folke with a smile. "No doubting that tongue."

"Indeed," agreed Arnald. He then looked at Cullen and said, "The Fangs are nearly one hundred and twenty men strong, Commander, and we have all our own tents and gear that we brought with us to serve. Tell us where to set up and we'll fall in line with your men."

Nodding respectfully, Cullen gestured at Rylen, saying, "My second, Rylen, can show your men the area we've cordoned off for you. After that, I can take you up the hill and introduce you to the Ambassador and our Spymaster." Obviously the two women had chosen the second option he'd given Leliana's scout since neither had yet to appear on the field.

"Spymaster?" repeated Arnald, his dark eyes gleaming from behind his mask, which Cullen noticed bore tiny green vines along the edges with just the hint of purple dotting them against the tan leather the mask was made of. Grapes, he guessed? Leliana hadn't detailed what the Seraine crest was in her report but she had...ah, now he remembered. They were known for their vineyards because they supplied a particular type of grape for winemakers so the decoration was likely the symbol of his house. "I do love talking to a good spymaster."

"That is because you _are_ a good spymaster," Zarru commented dryly, the first thing she'd said through the entire conversation. Her accent was stronger but still reminiscent of that Rivaini pirate that had followed Hawke around Kirkwall for a time. Her eyes, which were a dark blue that spoke of something besides Rivaini in her bloodline, flicked to Cullen then she inclined her head towards Arnald. "I can see the camp to order, Captain, if the heathen here will assist. Since his little girl is not present, he has no reason to be wandering about without a leash."

For a moment he thought she was _serious_ but judging by the way Folke just flipped his middle finger at her, this was her usual way of talking to the hedge mage. Arnald seemed to be resisting rolling his eyes at the pair of them.

"See it done, Tooth. Folke, try and be good."

"Fuck you, Captain," snapped the mage even as he saluted and turned to follow the woman back towards their mounts and the fourth figure who held them. Rylen arched an eyebrow at Cullen then followed them, immediately striking up a conversation with Zarru about exactly what supplies and men they had that needed settled.

Arnald rolled his eyes skyward and muttered, "Andraste give me strength. The man is going to be even more insufferable than usual." He then looked at Cullen and asked, "I'm going to hope you have somewhere for the men to drink. It's the only way we'll survive Folke's sulking until his girl comes back."

"We do," he replied, "and I already told it's proprietor, Flissa, to be ready to handle an influx of patrons." Cullen then grinned as he added, "I also have two bottles of Antivan brandy in my quarters that have Folke's name on them, courtesy of Meryell. She said that he would require them to get over his first round of sulking since she wasn't going to be here when the company arrived."

The man threw back his head in a broad laugh at that, shaking his head and dabbing at his eyes after a moment. "Oh, that girl," he said fondly, "she knows the man well." He then cocked his head to the side and peered up at Cullen. "Seems she knows _you_ well too, Commander."

"We've become friends," he replied simply before gesturing towards Haven's front gate. "Shall we walk? I will answer any questions you have as we go."

" _Any?_ "

Perhaps _any_ was not the right word he should have said, suddenly recalling the man's second saying _he_ was a spymaster, but it was too late to take it back now. So he just nodded and said, "So long as it would not compromise the Inquisition or Meryell."

Arnald hummed loudly at that and they walked for a moment in silence, taking the first steps up into Haven proper, before the man said anything.

"You call her by her name and not this _Herald of_ _Andraste_ business that everyone else seems to have taken to," was the first thing that came out of the man's mouth and Cullen found himself liking the man more if the question went where he thought it would. "Why do you do such?"

He respected a leader who sought to protect those beneath them.

"Originally because she asked me to," he replied matter-of-factly. "At that time I still called her Herald to others but that changed as we became friends. Now I call her _only_ by her name, to remind those who might think otherwise that she is a person and not a tool to be used. She is no sword to be sharpened and then cast aside when she has gone dull."

Vehemence had crept into his words at the end and Cullen found Arnald watching him closely, the man's eyes narrowed behind his mask. After a moment the Captain said quietly, "I respect a man who can see the worth of a woman. Even more so a man who is aware that he was a weapon and has broken with that, refusing to let those under and around him be viewed as he once was. I have _been_ that man." Arnald then held out a hand, adding, "I believe we are well alike, Commander Rutherford."

"Cullen," he insisted as he grasped the man's hand wrist-to-wrist in the more common grip of warriors and gave one firm shake.

"Arnald then." The Captain then frowned and asked, "This business in Val Royeaux...is it dangerous?"

Sighing, Cullen replied, "Not outwardly. She left with the intent to reach the city by the time the remaining clerics meet to try and talk with them, to get them to see that the Inquisition isn't the enemy of the Chantry they seem very willing to paint us as."

"A diplomatic mission is not the sort one sends Meryell on."

"Oh, I am all too aware but she is, despite how she hates the title, the Herald. She accepts the men and women who serve using it only because, as she stated, they need something to believe in."

"And yet," Arnald commented with a small smile, "you sent her anyway."

Cullen grinned as he replied, "Perhaps I'm hoping that she'll come back with the news that the clerics won't dare take her on for fear of her wicked tongue."

The man laughed heartily in response to that comment, nodding several times before he spoke again. "Oh, the girl might do just that. But, back to serious questions, how is she?"

Now _there_ was a loaded question that he still felt was prodding a little at just how close a relationship he had with Meryell.

Staying silent for a long moment, they were passing where Threnn had set herself up outside the Chantry when Cullen finally replied, "She misses her company. Our soldiers remind her of all of you but they aren't the same. There's no close camaraderie with them. It's not an easy thing to garner when you've been placed so seemingly far above those who would have once been your equals. I've experienced the same with a few other templars that I served with since taking over here."

"She's misses her _family_ ," he added quickly a moment later.

"Aye," Arnald said quietly. "Meryell has always been a soft-heart about the company like that. Folke too. Fuck, I suppose even _I_ am a bit like that. It is all we have, so we hold to it tight."

Cullen just nodded, feeling guilty suddenly that he still hadn't written back in response to Mia's last letter. It was just sitting on his desk, pinned in place by a hefty rock that was also holding down several other documents underneath the letter. Family had once been as important to him as it was to Meryell but Kinloch...what he'd gone through there had wounded a great many parts of his self. A higher lyrium ration numbing his senses and Kirkwall hadn't helped either in the years after that. What was his excuse now?

Shaking off the thought for later, he moved a few steps ahead and pushed open the Chantry door, motioning for the older man to precede him inside. The captain's mouth quirked up into a smile and, as Cullen followed him inside, he asked, "What do you think of her?"

"Meryell?"

"Have we spoken of any other?"

"No," replied Cullen with a slight smile as they walked towards the door that led to their war room. He noticed that Mother Giselle was watching him and the other man curiously before he looked at the state of the door ahead of them. It was standing half open, which was the indication that someone was inside but was still open for interruption. Then he shook his head and answered the question in full. "She is...well, you perhaps know better than me that there are many word to describe Meryell."

"True," agreed Arnald. He then stopped just before the door and turned to frown up at Cullen as he folded his arms across his chest. "That was not the question I asked, however."

Nodding, he said, "No. No, it wasn't."

The man arched an eyebrow and Cullen sighed, lifting a hand to nervously rub at the back of his neck before he could catch the gesture.

"I think she is far more than many here think of her. She is more than the Herald of Andraste, more than a mere sellsword, more than just an elven woman with a sharp tongue. She is..." He searched for a word to describe her but there was, in the end, only one thing that did her justice. "She is _Meryell_."

Arnald hummed low in his throat, dark eyes lidded beneath his mask in what might be heavy thought, then smiled broadly.

"She is Meryell indeed," he said before moving on into the war room and Cullen suddenly let out a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. Suspicion tickled the back of his mind as he followed the man, realizing that he felt like he'd revealed more than he'd intended. He then heard Arnald greet Leliana and Josephine with a simple _My ladies_ and turned his attention to the man in time to watch him right himself from a deep, formal bow.

Josephine was smiling at least. Leliana, on the other hand, was stone-faced.

He was constantly surprised at how long she was holding on to her grudge at Meryell for managing to keep her in the dark so long. Even Cassandra, who hadn't been pleased when the truth had come out, had reconciled with the other woman before they'd left for Val Royeaux. Leliana held onto it like a mabari in full battle lust.

"Captain Arnald Seraine," said Cullen, figuring that introductions were up to him since he'd brought the man in, "meet our Ambassador, Josephine Montilyet, and our Spymaster, Leliana."

" _Enchanté_ ," said the man with a smile as he folded his arms behind his back with the fingers of one hand clasped over his other wrist, standing with his feet shoulders-width apart and his back straight. "The Fangs of Vimmark are at the disposal of the Inquisition."

Josephine inclined her head slightly before saying, "We are delighted to have you, Captain Seraine."

Arnald held up a hand quickly, saying, "Just Arnald or Captain, if you will, my lady. Or both, if you've the mind. I may still hold my family name and wear the colors but I try not to make overt use of it."

"Understood, Captain. May I ask how many men came with you?"

"The company is at one hundred and twenty-four men strong," replied the man as he settled back into his stance. "One twenty-five if we count Meryell amongst our ranks but I imagine that is well over with..."

"I see no reason why it should be," Cullen interrupted. He then narrowed his eyes at Leliana over the man's shoulder as she started to open her mouth and gave a sharp jerk of his head. Now was _not_ the time to argue the semantics of Meryell's position between her company and the Inquisition, particularly with the person in question _not present_. Thankfully she seemed inclined to listen but her lips pursed into a firm line that went white with pressure.

He was no doubt going to get an earful after this meeting.

Arnald nodded towards him respectfully then turned his attention back to Josephine.

"We have with us a full compliment of mounts - horses mostly with a few others thrown in - as well as tents, equipment, and other supplies. I can have my second, Zarru, and our quartermaster, Conlin, compile a complete list for your perusal in under a week."

"Oh, that isn't necessary, Captain..."

Leliana held up a hand to still Josephine's words and smiled, saying, "That would be greatly appreciated, Captain Arnald. May I request a list of your members as well?"

Cullen narrowed his eyes at the request, wondering what exactly she was up to, but Arnald just nodded his head as he said, "Of course, my dear _espionne_." He wasn't certain what the Orlesian word meant but it was the first thing that had brought a smile to the redhead's face in some time.

"I may perhaps enjoy working with you more than I expected, Captain," she said in a suddenly more pleasant tone. "I was unaware that you were so...observant."

"Indeed, my lady," Arnald replied with a slow smile. "There are many things about me that cannot be found out except from the members of my company...and the Fangs are not easily _bought_ or _threatened_ into giving up our secrets."

"I will keep that in mind."

Cullen darted a glance at Josephine, suddenly feeling like he was on the outside of a very intricate dance, and her pleasant smile didn't reassure him at all. He liked the man but he was very uncomfortable with the way that he and Leliana were talking to each other. It made the hair rise on the back of his neck and his palms itch to grasp the hilt of his sword, like the feel of a place on the edge of descending into a fight. Like Kirkwall during that last year.

The Captain nodded and swept into another bow, saying, "Well, I merely wished to make my introductions. If you ladies will excuse me, I should be getting back to my men. Ambassador, Spymaster, Commander...good day." His eyes caught Cullen's as he left and he read the warning there. _Tread carefully_ , the man's gaze said and he nearly stated aloud that he already knew that.

But perhaps he didn't know just _how_ carefully he should be treading.

As the door closed behind the man, Cullen rested his hands on the pommel of his sword and said, "He seems an honest man."

"He is a mercenary captain, Commander," reminded Josephine.

"Meryell trusts him."

"And we are to trust her?" asked Leliana. "Especially about a man that my sources say the exact opposite of what she speaks of him?"

" _I_ trust her," growled Cullen.

She narrowed her eyes at that before saying sharply, "You trust too easily, Commander."

"Mayhaps," he acknowledged, merely because he _had_ trusted too easily in the past. He'd trusted his Commanders to do right, trusted his charges to do right, trusted his brothers and sisters to do right, and had all of them blow back in his face with equally horrendous consequences that had scarred his soul. Cullen then leaned towards her as he clenched his hand on his sword and growled, "But better to _trust_ easily and be scarred by betrayal than _doubt_ and find yourself alone because you trusted no one."

Leliana bristled in anger, her eyes flashing underneath her hood, and he knew he'd struck a nerve.

"And yet," she said firmly, "you are more likely to be alive with the latter. I thought with your _particular_ experiences, Commander, you'd have learned that lesson."

Cullen gritted his teeth at that and spat back, "Apparently I'm more hard-headed than you thought."

"Clearly."

"Enough!" snapped Josephine suddenly, looking between the two of them in exasperation. "We are better than this...this... _infighting!_ What sort of example do we make to our followers acting like this? You are both _above_ this sort of childish behavior. _Act like it._ "

The fact that they'd made the normally unflappable Ambassador _snap_ at them made Cullen realize just how far the ridiculousness had gone and that he had two choices: continue on his current path or retreat. He'd been in enough battles in his life to know when he should take which.

"You're right, Josephine," he said stiffly as he straightened. "I apologize for my behavior."

Josephine just shook her head and replied, "I need no apology, Commander. Simply endeavour to act better. _Both of you._ "

"Josie," began Leliana but the other woman held up a hand sharply.

" _No_. I have not said anything in the hope that you would get over this ire you have with the Herald but obviously given that it has begun to spread to others I cannot continue to take that path. You are angry that she was able to keep secrets from you, I understand that." The Ambassador's stern voice softened then as she finished, "But, my friend, she is the only person who can do something to save us, to close these rifts. We know what she kept secret now. Make peace with it."

"Or?" asked Leliana archly.

Cullen raised his brows at her tone and looked at Josephine, who's face had fallen at that response. She bowed her head over her ever present writing board before replying quietly in a steely tone, "Or I shall have to take matters into my own hands and find the Inquisition a Spymaster who _can_ work with the Herald."

Leliana took a step back at that, shock in her eyes, then she recovered her composure enough to pull her aloof mask back around herself. "I see. I will...think...upon it, Josie." She turned and walked out then, striding right past Cullen and onward towards the doors of the Chantry. He watched her go, more than a little shocked by how things had turned.

As Josephine's board clattered onto the table, he shifted his attention back to her and found the Ambassador standing with one arm wrapped around her waist and her other hand shakily folding over her lips. Concerned, he moved around the table and reached out to gently grasp her elbows, feeling her shaking. "Are you alright?" he asked softly.

"Hmm?" she replied, her unfocused eyes clearing and blinking up at him. "Oh. Yes, Commander. I'm fine."

"One doesn't square off against Leliana and come out _fine_ , Josephine. Not even if you win the bout. I should know."

She chuckled softly at that and nodded.

"Yes, I suppose you do. I merely...I did not expect her to continue like this. She is...she is much darker than she was when we originally met years ago. When she asked me to join the Inquisition, I did not glimpse this part of her."

Cullen just nodded and let his hands fall from her elbows now that she seemed steadier as he said quietly, "We try to hide the darkest parts of ourselves from those we care about." As Josephine's dark eyes tilted up at him, he shrugged slightly. "I struggle with the same thing."

"You and she are more alike than you know, Commander."

He snorted then changed the subject, not wanting to veer down that path. The Inquisition was his chance to be _better_ , not to be reminded of all he'd done wrong. "You can call me by my name, you know," he commented lightly.

Josephine just smiled at that and reached to pick up her writing board, setting it back into it's usual place before she said, "Perhaps one day, Commander."

Nodding, Cullen tipped his head forward slightly and said, "Good day, Ambassador." He knew a dismissal when he heard one. And the silent asking for privacy.

"And to you, Commander."

He turned and left the war room then, striding straight out of the Chantry and back down towards his domain. As he reached the field, the tenseness that had gathered in his shoulders and back started to relax, and he breathed a heavy sigh before turning his eyes back to the road leading out of Haven.

The next three to four weeks until Meryell returned were going to be _long_. He could feel it in his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Other Translations:**
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>  
> 
> espionne : spy (French)
> 
> * * *
> 
> For anyone curious as to what Kath Surana or Meryell look like, I edited my elf playthrough in the Black Emporium one day to nail them down visually so as to easier write Cullen's descriptions of them.
> 
>   
> 


	7. "Your Shiny Skirtness. Seems like your much lauded templars didn't do you much good in the end."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With templar assholes punching clerics, creepy encounters with the Grand Enchanter, and a back alley confrontation with some random Orlesian fop that led to her recruiting a Red Jenny, Val Royeaux was _exactly_ the sort of piss pot mess that Meryell expected it to be.

"What the fuck," spat Meryell as she watched the Lord Seeker's retreating back at the head of the templars trailing him, "crawled up his ass and died a decade ago?"

"He was _never_ inclined to ambition and grandstanding. I do not understand."

Turning to look at Cassandra, she asked the warrior, "You know him well?"

"Lord Seeker Lucius," replied the woman, "took over the Seekers of Truth two years ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert's death. He was always a decent man." She shook her head and muttered on, "This is very bizarre."

"Huh."

"Perhaps he can be reasoned with," continued Cassandra, her eyes still on the slowly disappearing figures.

Varric scoffed openly and Meryell sighed before saying, "You don't _reason_ with a man like that, Seeker. That's a man who's so far into zealotry that he can't see the way back out. You heard him." She scowled after that before finishing, "The only thing you can do to stop a man like that is put a knife in his damned gullet."

Cassandra took in a sharp breath before hissing, "Herald, we are in the _middle of Val_ _Royeaux_ _._ You cannot speak of...of... _murdering_ the Lord Seeker in the open!"

"I'd consider it a service to the fucking whole of Thedas," replied Meryell with a shrug. "Man like that...he's only going to lead what's left of the Order to ruin." A few months ago that wouldn't have hurt her much, before when all she'd had to do with the templars was that they sometimes came after Folke or one of the other mages in the company. She didn't count the ones that were in the company because they weren't templars anymore at that point. Most of the templars she had met were assholes who by and large hadn't taken a hint until steel got drawn. Since meeting Cullen, however, she'd come to see a new side to them.

Oh, they could still be bastards all right. But some...some could be decent.

"Y'know, Swears," mused Varric, "sometimes you scare me."

Grinning over her shoulder at him, she chirped, "Only _sometimes_?"

He laughed and Meryell chuckled before she turned away, heading towards the stage where the woman still sat on her knees breathing hard. As the woman looked up on her approach, Meryell saluted with two fingers and greeted, "Your Shiny Skirtness. Seems like your much lauded templars didn't do you much good in the end."

"I am certain that pleases you, _elf_ ," replied the woman, her tone more weary than it was cold.

Meryell's eyes narrowed at the silent insult and then Cassandra stepped up to say, "We came only to speak with the Mothers. This is not _our_ doing."

"And you had no part in forcing our hand, Seeker Pentaghast?" demanded the woman. "Now we have been shown up by our own templars and my fellow clerics have scattered to the winds." She then turned her eyes towards Meryell, saying, "Tell me one thing, if you do not believe you are the Maker's chosen, then what are you?"

"A bitch with too much curiosity who just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time," replied Meryell, ignoring Cassandra's little offended intake of breath and getting a bit confused by the noise Varric made. He had an issue with her swearing at Chantry's officials? She then rolled her eyes and crouched down, peeling off her left glove to reveal the Mark. "But I've got this _thing_ and I can just maybe help close the Breach and put a stop to all of this crazy shit going on. I like _normalcy_ , Shiny Skirt, and I'd like the world to get back to that way. No more, no less."

The woman blinked at her for a moment, eyes flickering back and forth between the Mark and her face, before she said, "That is...more comforting than you might imagine."

Snorting, Meryell pulled her glove back on as she asked, "Even with all the curse words? Everything I learned from the Sister that visited the alienage when I was a girl made me think that your sort didn't approve of foul language."

"There is a time and place for everything. Even those words."

"Huh." Meryell nodded _almost_ respectfully to the woman then stood up, jerking her head towards the other priests standing around. "Hey, you lot, take Shiny somewhere comfortable. Honestly, leaving her sitting on this splintery stage...what sort of clerics are you, the shitty kind? Come on, hop to, hop to!" As the pair jerked into motion, she grinned down at the woman before stepping away.

"Thought you didn't like the Chantry, Swears," commented Varric as they walked away from the stage.

"Hate the lot of their prissy pants," she replied before glancing back at the stage. The woman was upright now, shaking as she leaned between the two young men who'd accompanied her, and watching them walk away. Meryell inclined her head slightly to her before turning away again with the words, "I hate folks who beat up on those weaker than them more though. Fuckers like that need to die slow. _Fucking_ _nughumping_ _son of a bitch!_ "

She jumped sideways towards Cassandra as something flashed past her from above with a low whistle and got abruptly grabbed about the waist by the Seeker. The other woman slung her around like she weighed nothing - which, while she wasn't in Cassandra's weight class, she wasn't by any means _light_ \- and pulled her shield up in a defensive position over both their heads. Meryell blinked for a moment as she caught her breath then called dazedly, "Varric?"

"Yeah, Swears?" came his voice from somewhere behind the nearby shrubbery and she let herself relax a little.

"What the _fuck_."

"Looks like arrows, sweetheart."

" _Arrow_ ," corrected Cassandra as she cautiously lowered her shield, her eyes sweeping the landings above them. "There seems to have been only one."

Meryell frowned and slowly approached the arrow, circling around it cautiously for a moment. Whoever had fired it was _good_ and had buried the tip of the shaft into the seam between two of the worn stones of the yard. And obviously wanted their attention since there was a note carefully curled around the arrow and tied with a little bit of red ribbon.

Freeing the note, she straightened and read aloud, " ' _People say you're special. I want to help, and I can bring everyone. There's a baddie in Val_ _Royeaux_ _. I hear he wants to hurt you.'_ Huh, color me surprised. ' _Have a search for the red things in the market, the docks, and 'round the cafe, and maybe you'll meet him first. Bring swords._ ' It's signed..." Her eyes went wide and a slow grin spread across her face as her ire at being shot at got mostly erased. "Friends of Red Jenny! Oh, _Jennies._ What a fucking treat! Come on, we've got to sort this."

"You're _excited_ about this?" queried Varric at the same time Cassandra demanded, "Who _are_ these people?"

Meryell just grinned and extended her arms as she exclaimed, "The Red Jennies! Only some of the best sort to have around when there's some high-ass prick jacking off on the lowest in a city. At least here in Orlais and sometimes in Ferelden when they're not working for their own means. The Marcher ones are more about keeping the streets tidy than anything. I've met a couple while working, usually when we were both after the same asshole. They're the sort of folk you want on your side because if _they're_ on your ass you tend to not last long."

Cassandra wrinkled her nose and began, "I do not think..."

"Seeker," interrupted Varric, "she's right. I've never met one personally but I've certainly heard about what the Jennies do. Hawke and the rest of us did some of that street cleaning in Kirkwall for them. We want them to not want to kill us." He then paused, grinning, while gesturing at Meryell. "Plus, look at Swears. She looks like a kid in a candy shop with all the gold in the world."

Meryell laughed and tucked the note away, saying, "Well, come on, let's get on it. I want to find this...oh, hel-fucking-lo." She blinked at the elven woman in robes who was suddenly approaching them and asked aloud, "The fuck is a mage doing _here_?"

"Grand Enchanter Fiona!" exclaimed Cassandra, effectively answering the question.

So not only a mage, _the_ mage from Meryell's limited understanding of what had been the structure of the Circle. Folke didn't have much experience with it since he'd taught himself what little he was capable of but the mages he was closest to in the company, Gil and Demut, had both been Circle taught. Gil had had decent things to say about Ferelden before the Blight, which was when she had high tailed it out of the Tower, and Demut had escaped Starkhaven when its Circle had burned. She hadn't had decent things to say about the Circle during the little she even spoke of it and everyone in the company had the good sense to leave her past where it lay.

"And you're here because?" she asked, folding her arms and tilting her chin up in a challenging pose. The older elf gave her an appraising look and Meryell saw a grudging bit of approval there.

"I heard of this gathering and I wanted to see the fabled Herald of Andraste with my own eyes," replied Fiona. As Meryell snorted, the woman continued, "If it's help with the Breach you seek, perhaps my people are the wiser option."

"Well, here I am in all my travel dusty glory," Meryell said grudgingly at the hated title. She didn't mind the way the Inquisition soldiers said it so much anymore - they'd turned it into something to be _proud_ of almost, like a badge of honor - but the way the Grand Enchanter said it...it made her skin crawl. There was something not right about this whole situation. "By the way, why the fuck weren't you at the Conclave? Shouldn't that have been right up your alley?"

"She was supposed to be," intoned Cassandra, her voice accusatory. "And yet, somehow, you avoided death."

Fiona remained unflappable in the face of the Seeker's ire and Meryell gave her props for that alone. The woman had balls.

"As did the Lord Seeker," pointed out the woman. "We both sent negotiators in our stead in case of a trap." She then shook her head as she continued, "I won't pretend to be glad to live, Herald, Seeker. I lost many good friends that day. It _disgusts_ me to think the templars will get away with it and I'm hoping you won't let them."

The accusation hit Meryell like a knee to the gut, making her think of Cullen and everything he felt for the Order, and she asked, "So you think the templars are responsible?"

"Lucius hardly seems broken up over his losses," Fiona sneered. "If he's concerned about them at all. You think he wouldn't happily kill the Divine to turn people against us? So...yes...I think he did it." She then smiled coolly as she finished, "More than I think _you_ did it at any rate."

She couldn't fault the woman _that_ particular piece of logic. The Lord Seeker did seem exactly like the sort that would do just that if he thought it would bring his goals closer from what she'd seen of him so far.

"Fair enough," she acknowledged. Then she narrowed her eyes at Fiona and asked, "So...are the mages going to get off their arses now and help us?"

"We are willing to...discuss it...with the Inquisition at the least. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe. Come and meet with the mages, an alliance could help us all. _Au_ _revoir_ , my dear Herald."

As Fiona turned and walked away, Varric muttered, "Did anyone else get a really creepy vibe during that conversation?"

"Oh fuck yes," agreed Meryell, not taking her eyes off the woman. "She's genuine but...something's up. I dunno what but there is definitely something not bloody right about this whole thing. Too damned convenient."

"I agree," said Cassandra sternly. She then sighed and said, "Shall we investigate these Red Jennies of yours quickly? I would like to begin our return to Haven before night fall."

"Best to bet on tomorrow, Seeker," Meryell replied as she started towards the cafe that the note had mentioned. "This could take some time."

Time turned out to be hours past dusk when the city was dark.

They had followed the trail of their mysterious Jenny and as Meryell pushed open a pair of doors, she instinctively jerked back to avoid the fireball that came flying towards her face. "Fucking shitebag!" she cursed, glaring at the Orlesian _fop_ standing in the middle of the open courtyard.

"Herald of Andraste!" exclaimed the man before he posed - _fucking posed_ \- where he stood. "How much did you spend to discover me? It must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably."

Meryell blinked at the man, working her jaw silently through a collection of words that she wanted to say but they wanted to come _all at once_ and not _one at a damned time like proper_. She turned her head to look at Varric, who shrugged before hefting Bianca, and then over at Cassandra, who made her signature noise of disgust as she freed her sword from its sheath. Then she looked back at the fop and sneered, "I have absolutely no fucking idea who you are other than the _mother fucker_ who just threw a fireball at my face."

The man curled his lip underneath his mask at that.

"You don't fool me! I'm too _important_ for this to be an accident. My efforts will survive in victories against you elsewhere."

Oh, she was going to _gut_ this asshole like a sodding fish. On the mere fact of him being a stuck up prick, not to mention that he'd _tossed a fireball at her_. He'd thrown down the gauntlet first so far as she was concerned.

Meryell then jerked her head around at the sound of a man dying from their left and noticed that the man had turned as well. She blinked at the slight form of the young blond elf standing there in patchwork leather armor that covered some truly _garish_ looking fabric that made up tunic as well as pants and then started laughing at the girl's immediate words.

"Just say ' _what_ '."

"What is the... _grrk_ _!_ "

The fop toppled with an arrow in his throat and Meryell sighed before she strode out towards the girl, saying, "And here I was going to gut him open like a fish at market. Good shot though."

The other elf grinned at that before saying, "Sorry! Squishy one but you heard me right? _Just say what._ Rich tits always try for more than they deserve." She then moved towards the now corpse and tugged out the arrow. "Blah, blah, _blah_. Obey me! Arrow in my _face_."

"So," she continued, "I see you followed all the notes well enough." The girl then trailed off as she tilted her head to the side, which let Meryell observe that her blond hair was hacked off short in uneven patches the same as hers. Definite pattern of someone who'd gotten used to dealing with life on their own. Then she noticed the girl's nose wrinkling in disgust as she drawled, "Aaaaand, you're an elf. Hope you're not _too_ elfy."

"Swears? Elfy?" said Varric from behind her as Meryell just blinked at the girl. The dwarf grinned as she turned to look at him after a moment before continuing, "I mean, I know you know some Elven, Swears, which would normally make you _elfy_ but I've met elves from the alienage that are a lot more elf-like than you are."

"Thanks, Varric. I think."

"Alienage?" repeated the girl.

"South Reach," answered Meryell. She then cocked her head to the side, recognizing the girl’s accent as _clearly_ as Ferelden as her own (though she herself was like Cullen in that she had some obvious Marcher influence from years spent there). "Denerim?"

"You're good!" The other elf then waved her hands as she said, "The most important thing is: you glow? You're the Herald thingy?"

Rolling her eyes, Meryell replied sourly, "That's what they're calling me. So...you're the Red Jenny? The one that shot the arrow at us? And who was _that_ idiot?"

The girl cocked her head to the side, a grin growing on her face as she asked, "You already know about the Jennies?"

"Worked with a few during my years. You ever heard of the Fangs of Vimmark?"

"You're a Fang! Never met one of your lot before but I've heard of you. One of you helped whats-his-name in Jader take out that bastard who was taking kids off the street like he was helpin' them and doing terrible shite to them." She then shrugged and continued, "And I don't know this idiot from manners. My people just said the Inquisition should look at him."

Cassandra huffed from behind them and asked, "Your _people_?"

Meryell tilted her head to the side as she said, "The servants. The working poor. The homeless. Anyone that gets spit on by most by those who think themselves better. They shit on the little folks who they think can't do anything and the Jennies step in to even the score."

The girl just grinned before gesturing at a large crate, saying, "Name's Sera. This is cover. Get round it. For the reinforcements." She broke off for a moment and her grin became even brighter. "Don't worry, someone tipped me their equipment shed. They've got no _breeches_."

Finding herself grinning right back at the girl, Meryell freed her daggers from their sheaths as she tumbled into cover at the almost absurdly perfectly timed sound of boots on the cobblestones. A quintet of guards wearing everything they owned except their _pants_ came around the corner and she couldn't help it. She burst into giggles as soon as she sprang out of cover once one went past her, burying her blades keep into his kidneys.

"You are such a _child!_ " exploded Cassandra as the woman slammed her shield into another guard's face, drawing a fountain of blood from his shattered nose as he stumbled backwards.

"Only when it's appropriate, Seeker!" she shot back with a laugh as she spun herself around the back of the collapsing guard towards another who was rushing at her. Her first strike clattered against his armor but her second came in low while he was grinning at her, slicing the inside of one of his thighs open right up at the groin. Meryell darted away as blood poured from the wound while he fell to the ground as his leg gave out. She'd been taught her anatomy well, just the same as any in the company.

He'd be dead in minutes.

Turning to survey the rest of their attackers, she saw that one was already down via arrows from the girl, Sera, as well as Bianca's bolts. Cassandra had already downed the one she'd slammed in the face and swiftly took out the last who'd gone after her in what looked like a last ditch attempt at doing _something._ Tugging at one of her pouches for a cleaning rag, Meryell swiftly wiped the blood from her blades and sheathed them before she smiled at Cassandra. The Seeker caught her look and snorted before making her disgusted noise as she shook her head.

There was a little _twitch_ at the side of her mouth though.

She'd _almost_ gotten the ever serious Seeker to _fucking smile_. It might just be her new goal in life now, since she'd actually come to like the woman since those first days after the Breach's opening.

"Friends really came through with that tip!" exclaimed Sera with a smile and a giggle. " _No breeches!_ " She then looked right at Meryell and said, "You're a strange one, Herald, but...I like you. I'd like to join."

" _You_ want to join the _Inquisition_?" Cassandra asked in surprise.

The elf nodded sharply as she looked over at the other woman, responding with, "You need people, right?" She then shifted back to Meryell as she continued on. "I want to get everything back to normal. Like you?"

"Like me," agreed Meryell, as she'd said the exact same thing earlier. She almost turned to look at Cassandra but decided against it. The Seeker had been happy to let her make the decisions by the time they'd finished up in the Hinterlands - before she'd gotten her arm torn open by a damned demon - so she was going to run with it. If Cassandra wanted to fight about it, the Seeker surely would. Extending a hand, she said, "I think the Inquisition could find great use in the Red Jennies."

"Grand!" exclaimed Sera. She cocked her head for a moment before she grinned and reached out to take the offered hand, shaking Meryell's whole arm fiercely for a moment before she let go. "You've got people that'll buy things right? 'Cause now I've got all these breeches...anyway, _Haven_. See you there, Herald!"

With that the girl turned and left, leaving them in a courtyard with six dead bodies.

"Swears?" Varric said in a slightly cautious voice.

"Yeah?"

"You attract the _strangest_ people."

Meryell just laughed at that, saying, "You know that includes _you_ technically, right?"

"Pff," he replied, flapping a hand blithely, "I was already with the Inquisition. Doesn't count!"

"You were not _with_ the Inquisition," Cassandra hissed. "You were _loitering_ where you were not wanted."

Varric grinned and waggled a finger at the woman before he said, "Ah, but don't forget, Seeker, I turned out to be useful." When she made only her disgusted noise in response, he chuckled before speaking again. "Anyway, Swears, we should get out of here. All that commotion is going to draw the city guards eventually and the last thing we need to do is get arrested. Curly and Ruffles would both have a fit."

Nodding, Meryell said, "Alright, let's go. There'll be no catching a ship tonight but we can be on the docks bright and early to find one that can take us back to Jader. So I guess it's back to the tavern."

"Ugh," was Cassandra only comment to the plan and Varric just nodded.

Shaking her head at them, Meryell headed for another set of doors that let out of the courtyard and took a minute to orient herself after opening them. She was already thinking of drinks and bed and the company that came with the former (but not the latter)...but not a one of those was in Val Royeaux.

They weren't even a minute into their trip home and she was already counting the time until she could settle into a chair at The Singing Maiden with a bit of whiskey in her glass and Cullen's warm presence at her side. She could practically hear his voice in her ear, all quiet commentary about this man or that woman and what their story was. It was their game she'd come up with to pass time, giving people stories that weren't their own, plus it kept both of their minds going on other things. That was her own excuse for it anyway, so she didn't think _too_ much on the handsome man that half of Haven already thought she was bedding.

The man she had to now go tell that his former Order was looking more and more out of their minds.

That thought brought any happiness she felt to a screeching halt and Meryell groaned quietly to herself. She suddenly wasn't looking forward to the return trip _at all_.


	8. "Why, Varric, are you under the impression that my 'singing' is a euphemism?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning home from Val Royeaux reveals a pleasant surprise for Meryell. All of the reunions that happen during the day, however, aren't entirely as happy as she had hoped they'd be.

Meryell knew _something_ was different as soon as they entered the little area within the Frostbacks that Haven was nestled into. There was more smoke down below them than there had been when they'd ridden out, which meant more fires in the soldiers outer camp. More fires meant more men. More men meant...

"Fangs!" she exclaimed and, without thinking of her two companions, gave her horse a swift nudge with her heels. The sturdy Ferelden Forder that Master Dennet had gifted her sprang forward like a shot into a greedy lope that ate up the road and she ignored Cassandra and Varric's exclamations of surprise from behind her. Those fires were her _company_.

_Her family was here._

_Folke_ _was here!_

A wide grin spread across her face as she thundered around the curve in the road, drawing attention from the men and women that were being drilled by Rylen in the main training area. Meryell rode right past them and down into the camp that was marked with the company banners as she shouted, " _Rise up, dusty war dogs!_ "

" _Climb the_ _Vimmarks_ _high!_ " came back an echoing shout from a group that was gathered around the largest central fire in the camp and then the Captain's voice sang out from somewhere nearby, " _There was a company, they rode for the sea!_ "

Laughing merrily, she flung herself out of the saddle as she belted out the next part of the chant alongside the rest.

" _O ho, fangs all out!_ "

" _There was a company came home again_ ," sang out Arnald again, though this time he was closer. Meryell turned to look for him as she sang the next line.

" _Captain's brought us back around!_ "

The Captain was abruptly in front of her, a wide grin splitting his face. " _And what do you think they brought back now?_ "

Meryell just grinned back at him and let her voice ring out the loudest with the _O ho, fangs all out_ line. He winked at her before he continued, " _There was diamonds, there was gold_ ," right before he dragged her into a warm bear hug. She readily accepted the affection since the Captain didn't give it all too often and hummed happily into his shoulder where her face had settled.

" _Captain's brought us back around!_ " sang the rest once more and the song was as abruptly done as it had started. The rest of the company started to press in around them then and Arnald released her to hold up both of his hands.

"Fangs!" he belted out in a parade ground voice. "Our Meryell's returned to us! Where's the company welcome?"

"HO!"

The shouts around her rattled her bones and Meryell _loved it_. She closed her eyes as the vibrations of their voices sang through her, feeling the close camaraderie that she'd been trying so hard to find amongst the Inquisition instantly back again with them around her. It was almost enough to make her feel well and truly soppy without one drop of alcohol in her.

_Almost._

Chuckling, Arnald continued, "You lot could do better but I suppose we'll take it. Now, you all know the gist and you know how to run yourselves. Make your greetings and make sure your shit gets done or else I'll sic Tooth on the lot of ya!"

"So quickly to turn to me, Captain!" rang out Zarru's amused voice from somewhere in the ranks. "Are you certain you don't want to retire?"

"I'll retire when I'm _dead_. _Ain't that right, war dogs?!_ "

"AYE!" shouted the lot of them and Meryell made certain that she raised her voice with them. The crowd immediately began to disperse after that, various members of the company coming up to her to give her a simple slap on the shoulder or the warm mutter of _Welcome back_ and _Glad you're not dead_. She took it all in stride for a moment before she turned a serious eye to Arnald, who just smiled and jerked his chin towards Haven's main gate.

"He's up in the tavern, which is where he's been when I haven't sent Gil up to drag him down for drills." The Captain's face then went starkly serious as his voice dropped in volume. "Man was near lost when he thought you were dead, girl. Try not to actually get yourself there?"

Smiling despite the sudden clench of her heart at what her supposed death had put Folke through, Meryell smiled up at him. "That's what you lot are going to be around for now, yeah?" she asked and laughed as she earned a sharp snort from him.

"Still a smart ass whelp, I see."

"As if I'd change, Captain. You'd piss yourself if I was suddenly different after a decade of bullshit."

Arnald barked out a laugh and she turned to leave at that, only to have his hand catch her arm. His dark eyes shifted behind his mask to somewhere behind her - where she was vaguely aware that Rylen had picked his shouting of orders back up - before he said, "The Commander is a good sort. Honorable man."

Wondering where this was going, she cautiously nodded. "He is. Best I've met here."

"Mmm. And he's smitten with you...but I think you already knew that, didn't you, girl?"

Meryell ducked her head, trying to hide her eyes by the fringe of her hair that fell over them, and began, "Arnald..."

"No," he hissed sharply as he stepped forward to grasp her other arm and gave her a little shake. "Don't you _Arnald_ me, my girl. I can see it as easy as anyone else here, though a lot of them seem to already think you and the Commander have fallen into bed.”

“We _haven't._ ”

“I know you well enough to know that. So I'm going to go ahead and ask before Folke gets a chance: are you giving it serious thought? You deserve happiness as much as anyone, girl.”

Arnald didn't know her as well as Folke did and he certainly didn't know all of her issues but he knew enough. He'd always made sure he knew something about everyone that served in the Fangs since he'd taken over the captaincy so he knew _enough_ about her to know she had a difficulty with relationships. That and her joining at fifteen had left her as the proverbial company baby for years, so he and the older lot had always looked after her in their own ways.

Meryell sighed before replying, “I want to _try_.”

Arnald nodded sharply at that and released his grip on her, saying, “That's all you need do. Now, go give both of your men a hug and have a drink with at least one or _both_ of them tonight. From what I've seen, I think they both need it.”

Frowning with concern at his words, she demanded, “What's been going on while I was gone?”

“Ask your Commander, girl. Now _aller_ , _aller_.”

“Fine, fine. I'm fucking going!”

Meryell turned away with Arnald’s chuckles ringing behind her and retrieved her horse, which was still standing patiently where she'd leapt off of it. Clucking softly to the beast, she led it towards the stable and found Varric leaning against one of the fence posts with an amused smile on his face. “That was an interesting tune, Swears,” he commented as she moved past him into the small stable where they stored their tack. “Specific to your company?”

Nodding, she replied, “From the first days of the company. One of the founding members was a former pirate and he adapted some of the chants from his sailing days to the company to make our first marching songs." As she looped the horse's reins around a high hook and then bent to unbuckle the saddle, she continued, "That one has always been one of my favorites. Which is probably why Arnald chose it."

"Didn't feel like that was all of it."

"It wasn't." Meryell glanced at him and laughed as she saw the curious look he was giving her. "I'm not going to sing it for you now if that's what you're fucking thinking!"

"Oh, come on, Swears," wheedled Varric.

"Nope," she replied with a sharp pop of her lips. As she hefted the saddle and pad from her horse's back, she added, "Given that the company is with us now, you'll hear it at some point. And I only sing for two reasons anyway."

The dwarf arched his eyebrows at that and she smiled mysteriously, letting her comment settle for a moment because the way she said it usually gave the impression of something more than innocent. She settled the saddle on its rack and tossed the sweat-stained pad aside onto the pile that was to be washed before being used again, waiting for the inevitable response. It didn't take long at all before he sputtered wordlessly.

Varric asked, "That's it? You're seriously just going to leave me hanging?"

"Hanging?" repeated Meryell as she turned to drape her arm across her saddle. Looking at his face, she smirked, saying, "Why, Varric, are you under the impression that my 'singing' is a euphemism?"

He opened his mouth, gaping at her for a moment, then his eyes narrowed as he lifted a hand to waggle a finger at her. "That was just mean, Swears."

"You're the one who went somewhere dirty."

"Sweetheart, it's not my fault when you say something like that that way."

Meryell tipped her head back to laugh and decided to take a little bit of pity on the dwarf. Moving back to her horse, she picked up one of the halters and fitted it on underneath the bridle before she began to remove the latter. As she freed the bit from the horse's mouth, she explained, "I sing with the company and when I'm alone."

Varric huffed at that, saying, "Well, that wasn't half as interesting as what I was thinking."

"What _were_ you thinking?"

"Well," he drawled, "Rivaini always made the comment that she could play a man like a fiddle. Thought that your singing might be a similar euphemism."

"Oh no," Meryell said with a shake her head as she hooked a lead onto the halter of her horse and moved to hang up the bridle. She then turned her head to look at him and smiled slyly. "When I have a man underneath me, neither of us has enough energy to do something as distracting as singing."

He blinked at her for a moment before he laughed, saying, "You are going to _break_ Curly."

"Nonsense. I want Cullen in one piece." She immediately felt a hot flush run over her at that and stopped so quickly her horse nudged against her with a snort. Lifting her free hand to lightly touch her lips, Meryell breathed, "I..."

"Swears?" asked Varric. "You alright?"

"I just..." She swallowed hard and looked down at him, saying quietly, "I don't admit I want something a lot, Varric. Especially not a man. At least not in the way I want him." Normally she felt uncomfortable talking to someone else who wasn't Folke so openly about this sort of thing but Varric had - like Cullen - been friendly to her since everything had started. And he'd been the one there when she'd had that little panic attack involving Cullen after she'd woken up.

The dwarf just smiled up at her and gave her a pat on the arm that she almost dared call _fatherly_. "Don't worry so much, sweetheart," he commented warmly. "It'll all work out."

Arching an eyebrow, Meryell started moving again down the hill to the hastily built fenced in area at the edge of the frozen lake. As she opened the gate and nudged her horse inside after releasing it from the lead, she stepped back to stand next to him in silence for a moment. Then she folded her arms and growled, "You have _fucking money_ running on us getting together, don't you?"

"Only amongst the inner circle."

"Varric!"

"You want to know the odds?"

Meryell worked her jaw for a moment, trying to find anger at him but only discovered amusement. Mostly because betting on inane things like folk getting together was a constant amongst the company. Just another bit of familiarity amongst the members of the Inquisition...though, she guessed that she was doubly that now with the Fangs taking coin from the Inquisition now.

"Are they in our favor?" she asked.

Varric just grinned and replied, "Three-to-one odds of it happening. Even Chuckles put in a coin towards you two getting together."

" _Chuckles?_ "

"Mhmm."

Flinging up her hands, she said, "Alright, that's enough for the day. I'm going to go find Folke and have a fucking drink. Oh, and try not to get murdered as he's no doubt wanting to strangle me by now." She turned immediately after finishing and walked off, hearing Varric chuckling behind her as she headed towards Haven's gates. Several heads nodded to her as she went alongside murmurs of _Welcome back, Herald_ and she remembered to give them all at least an acknowledging nod in return.

As she pushed open the main door of The Singing Maiden, several of the off-duty soldiers inside immediately took up a cheer of _Herald!_ as they lifted their mugs. There were also a few faces from the company amongst them and they each smiled before pointing her towards one of the corner tables that was back towards the tavern's second door. Nodding her thanks, Meryell glanced towards the dejected looking figure who was slumping across the table's surface with one hand curled around a battered wooden cup with the other around an empty bottle then headed towards Flissa. Jerking her head in his direction as she leaned across the bar, she asked, "What's the fucker in the corner drinking? Whiskey, wine, rum?"

The tavern's owner smiled at the sight of her and exclaimed, "Herald! Welcome home!" before she sobered and shook her head. "That man's been a sorry sight since those mercenaries arrived, Herald. The Commander told me you knew him!"

"He's my father. Essentially."

Flissa took that comment in easy stride, unlike some who immediately looked at her ears before commenting that Folke _couldn't_ be her father. She then reached underneath the counter and pulled out a twin to the empty bottle at the man's table, saying, "It's some sort of wheat whiskey that's popular in the Marches." A cup quickly joined the bottle and as Meryell reached for her coin purse, the other woman held up a hand. "No charge for you tonight, Herald. We'll call it even if you can get him in good spirits. A man that down generally brings down the whole of a tavern."

"Whatever the Inquisition is paying you," commented Meryell as she picked up bottle and cup, "they should raise it."

"Pff, I just know how to keep folks in drink. Now shoo!"

Taking the exit, she turned and walked across the bar in several sure strides before slamming bottle and cup down on the table with enough force that it rattled the two closest tables. Folke bolted upright, his eyes narrowed furiously and a flicker of fire gathered around his fingers as the hand around the bottle came up. As Meryell dropped into the chair across from him and deftly poured whiskey into her glass before grabbing his to do the same, his hazy eyes cleared just enough to bring his hand down.

"Poppet," he growled, voice made dark by alcohol. His fingers then tightened around the cup before he lifted it to toss the whole glass back. She nodded and lifted her own, sipping slowly because while wheat whiskey was Folke's preferred for getting shitfaced on the cheap, it wasn't hers. The clear shit that was made in the Anderfels from wheat (which they called _feuerwasser_ ) was her preferred when she wanted to get drunk and drunk _quick._

His fingers were around her wrist then, gripping tight enough to bruise even through the leather vambraces she wore and her half-gloves. Slowly, Meryell lowered her cup to the table and grabbed his wrist in her hand, leaning across the table to get in his face with her teeth bared.

"You wanna fight, old man?" she snarled and his eyes sparked. Folke's other hand grasped her chin and that was when she heard one of the soldier's murmur behind her something about stopping it. One of the company immediately told him to settle down because this was their way. She didn't give them any more than a cursory listen, however, knowing the company members in the tavern would keep any of the Inquisition soldiers from doing something stupid. Her focus was Folke.

He stared at her for a moment, his grey eyes dark and hazy, then he growled and rose enough out of his chair to press a kiss against her forehead that was more teeth than lip. "You fucking whelp," he growled into her skin. "I thought you were fucking _dead_. Charm didn't work, couldn't find it on your end from mine, and I... _fuck_. Demut had to take it away from me. If I had more power, I might've had a demon stalking my sleep with offers to find you."

Meryell closed her eyes and shivered at the depth of emotion in his words. And the thought of _him_ falling to a demon had her heart pounding in fear. Lifting her other hand, she cupped his scarred cheek, feeling the familiar wound that he'd earned because of _her_ underneath her palm, and whispered, " _Ir abelas_ , _baba_."

Folke huffed out a breath in response and released her wrist, shifting the hand on her chin to cup her cheek as the other hand came around to frame her face. " _Lanastathe_ _, ara vherain_," he softly replied, his drunken tongue having trouble around the words despite his competence with Elven while sober. He then kissed her forehead again, this time more softly, before he muttered, "Evune helped me plant a tree for you. Said that even though you weren't Dalish born and didn't believe in her gods, that she thought it would help lead you home to us if we planted it with some of your things."

The thought that he'd done the Dalish rite of death for _her_ had Meryell all choked up with sudden emotion. Mostly because she'd always liked the idea and had done it (though it was with flowers and scraps of fabric) for her mother alongside her father and then later for her father alone. Clearing her throat past the sudden lump in it, she asked, "What'd you bury?"

"One of your old tunics and that knife you broke saving my life that first year."

"I kept that knife for a reason."

Folke just nodded. "And I buried it for one," he replied starkly. Then he finally pulled away from her and stood, wobbling slightly. As Meryell rose hurriedly to brace him, his hands closed around her wrists again and pulled her close. "Let's head elsewhere, Poppet. I think this lot have seen enough emotion for the day and I'm not going to let our own see me cry. Or you."

Nodding, she tossed back the rest of her cup before picking them and the bottle up in one hand with some finagling. Then she tucked her shoulder under Folke's arm, wrapped her arm about his waist, and said, "Come on, old man. Let's go see my cabin."

Several hours later, which were filled with her filling him in on the gaps since they'd seen each other last and what had happened with the Inquisition, Meryell sat at the table in her cabin with a bottle of whiskey - her own favored version that was barley based, not that _shit_ Folke had been drinking. She'd finally had a chance to get out of her gear and get a bath after he'd passed out in her bed, now wearing close-fit breeches that left her legs bare from the knee down and a long, loose tunic that had a wide neck. Yet, she still hadn't seen hide nor hair of Cullen since she'd arrived in Haven.

After Folke had passed out but before her bath, she'd gone down to the field but had found Rylen and one of Cullen's lieutenants in charge of training. And the Knight-Captain hadn't had an answer for where the Commander was except that he'd said he had business to see to earlier in the day. Cassandra hadn't seen him either since they come back and she'd even went to ask Josephine if she'd seen the man. The Ambassador hadn't had an answer either. She'd even poked her head in his tent to no avail.

Now it was dusk and she was starting to get worried.

Sighing, Meryell lifted one leg into the chair and propped her chin against it for a minute before she reached out to grasp the bottle. As she poured another generous portion into her cup, there was a knock at her door. She froze, nearly overfilling her cup, then remembered herself and righted the bottle as she rose from her chair.

Padding across the floor to the door, she opened it and found Cullen there. He was wearing only a tunic, trousers, and boots underneath his coat and looked utterly _spent_ by the way he was heavily leaning against her door frame. The riot of curls that she'd only seen that one night were in full force except where they were clinging to his forehead, which was broken out with sweat despite the fact that it was so cold outside. He blinked slightly feverishly at her, obviously not having expected the door to open, and said very quietly, "Oh."

"Andraste's dripping cunt," breathed Meryell in response as she reached out towards him. He tried to push himself away to stand up straight but she was quicker and grabbed a handful of his coat in one hand while the other rose to press against his forehead. "You are burning up! And shaking!" She could feel the minute shakes where her knuckles were pressed against his chest in the curl of her grip on his coat, an almost constant rattling that was caused by more than cold from the weather. He certainly didn't look like he'd been out in the weather long enough to have caught even a chill.

"It's nothing," he said hurriedly. "I shouldn't...you shouldn't...I didn't..." Cullen closed his eyes as he lifted a hand to press two fingers hard against his temple before he ground out, "You just got back?"

"A few hours ago," she replied. Glancing over her shoulder at Folke's unconscious form, she knew he wouldn't be up for a good long while and little would disturb the alcohol soaked sleep he'd sunk into. So she tugged at Cullen's coat and was more than a little surprised at how easy it was to drag him forward a step. He had more than a few good inches of height on her as the top of her head barely came up to his collarbones and likely more than twice her weight in muscle mass alone. In a down and dirty fight she knew how to use that mass against him or if she really needed to get out of a fight. To be able to move him when she'd barely used any force, however? That meant something was seriously wrong.

Cullen blanched and muttered, "I shouldn't..."

Meryell narrowed her eyes and hissed, "Cullen, you either come inside my cabin and _fucking sit down_ or anyone still awake in Haven is going to be witness to the rather embarrassing sight of me _dragging you inside_ after I knock you out for arguing with me." He blinked several times at that before he sighed and nodded wearily, which prompted her to tug at his coat again. This time he came when prompted and she closed the door behind him before pushing him gently back against the door with, "Stay there."

Crossing the room to the hearth, she grabbed the iron poker leaning nearby and stirred the fire back towards life before tossing two new logs onto it. Meryell then carried the chairs from her table over to sit them in front of it before she returned to Cullen and grabbed his hands. She was surprised to feel calloused skin in her own instead of the leather of his gloves and instead of the heat that normally radiated from his palms, there was an almost _oppressive_ cold. Grimacing, she said, "Come."

"Folke?" he weakly asked as he followed her. He then dropped - not sat, _dropped_ \- into one of the chair's when she pressed him into it and groaned as he leaned his head back against the back, his eyes falling closed.

"Drunk off his fucking ass," she replied before dragging her chair forward, settling herself right in front of him. Her knees were tucked inside his own that were spread wide and she felt a blush rising into her cheeks at where her mind went because of that position. Shaking herself, Meryell leaned forward and started pushing his coat off of his shoulders, trying to tug him forward so she could free it. Cullen had turned into dead weight, however, and she didn't have the strength to both pull him forward and keep him from completely falling to the floor. Grumbling wordlessly between her teeth, she got up and leaned over him with one hand braced against his chest and the other rising to cup his cheek. "Cullen? Are you still with me?"

"Tired," he replied softly, the letters of the word sounding like they were tumbling against each other. He then lifted his head and smiled wearily, saying, "I missed you."

 _Now_ she was blushing, she could feel the heat in her cheeks.

Meryell smiled, though, and cautiously stroked her thumb across the jut of his cheekbone. "I missed you too," she breathed, feeling like it was almost too close to admitting her feelings. It wasn't too close because friends missed each other when they were apart but that wasn't how she meant it. She then cocked her head to the side and asked, "Are you falling asleep on me?"

Cullen shook his head mildly initially then he sheepishly nodded. The skin between his eyebrows then wrinkled as he muttered, "Haven't slept in...I dunno. Headache. Nightmares. Didn't..." He paused to lick his lips and closed his eyes. "Didn't want to you to see."

"Didn't want me to see you like this?"

"Yes."

"That doesn't explain why you showed up at my door then," she noted.

He shrugged his shoulders at that, saying, "You...you make it _easier_. Even when you were gone."

Meryell wanted to ask what exactly she made easier but if he hadn't really slept in days then getting the man horizontal was more important. She could ask questions later. "Okay then," she said before shifting her hands to his shoulders and pulling as hard as she could. "Come on then, Commander," she continued as he grunted at her efforts. "Unfortunately I can't offer my bed but there's a nice rug right here on my floor."

"I should..."

"Leave?" she pressed. "As if I'm going to let you fucking leave on your own. And with the state you're in, I couldn't get you down to your tent on my own. Oh, and I'm certainly not going to go wake up Rylen or anyone else in order to get you there. So it looks like you're stuck with me."

Cullen blinked fuzzily at her for a moment before he sighed and sat forward with some effort. His movement allowed her the space to push his coat off fully and as she bent to free it from his arms, he leaned forward into her. Meryell froze as Cullen nuzzled into her throat and shakily said, "Cullen."

"Mmm," he mumbled in response.

"What are you doing?"

He froze and she could feel him intake and release a ragged breath against her neck. Then his lips moved, brushing feather-light across her skin, as he replied, "I don't know."

She moved her hands back to his shoulders and straightened to pull away from him. Then immediately blushed as she realized that him half-slumped in the chair with her standing in front of him had his face at the level of her breasts. Some little part of her noted that later for possible future reference while the rest fought between embarrassment and that old sentence that continued to follow her despite all efforts otherwise.

"Come on," she said hurriedly, glad that he wasn't in a state to notice her blushing. "To the floor."

Cullen groaned but obediently scooted to the edge of the chair, doing little more than sliding off of it onto his knees. She stepped away to move the chairs back to the table and when she turned back, he'd managed to get himself flat on the rug in front of the hearth. Moving back towards him, Meryell knelt by his feet and carefully removed his boots to set them aside, which didn't elicit any sort of response from him. She picked up his coat from where it had somehow landed on the floor and impulsively slung it around her shoulders, letting it hang free towards the floor as she went to crouch by his head. As she pressed her hands against his forehead and neck to try and judge how hot he was, Cullen opened his eyes.

"You're still feverish," she commented. "I should find something to cool you down."

He just shook his head and replied, "Isn't...it isn't fever."

"You want to explain what the fuck it is then?"

"Later?" he replied and it was more question than actual response. Sighing, Meryell nodded and settled herself onto the rug next to his head, tucking her bare feet underneath his coat and up against the heat of his arm. She leaned above him for a moment, chewing on her lip thoughtfully, before she reached out with the other hand to slowly run her fingers through his curls. They were slightly matted and sweaty but the contact drew a low groan out of Cullen that had her entire body tightening at the thought _her_ drawing that sound out of _him_ with more than a mere hand in his hair.

He shifted, his other hand coming across his body to touch her leg, and he breathed, "I'm sorry."

" _Telahna_ ," Meryell said as she continued to run her fingers through his hair. " _Era , __vhen'an'ara_ _._ Sleep, Cullen." As his face relaxed into sleep she wasn't certain what had prompted her to call him _that_ in particular but...well, it was true, wasn't it? Hopefully he wasn't conscious enough to register the words she said and she could avoid him asking in the morning.

Looking down at him, she frowned before asking softly aloud, "What is it that you won't tell me? What do you so fear me knowing?" He had said that he didn't want her to see, which meant that there was something that he thought he had to hide from her. Something that gave him headaches and nightmares. And yet those were better when he was around her?

Sighing, Meryell closed her eyes as she continued her ministrations, muttering to the memory of her father, "You were right about one thing, _babae_. _Shemlen_ are strange creatures indeed." She was determined that she would solve the mystery of this _one_ though. Even if nothing ever came of this still nameless _thing_ between them, she could still help Cullen shoulder his burdens.

That was what a friend did, no?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvhen/Elven Translations:**
> 
>  
> 
> feuerwasser : firewater (actual German, which is the main language I personally apply to the Anderfels)  
> ir abelas : I'm sorry  
> baba : father  
> lanastathe : forgiven  
> telahna : hush  
> era : sleep  
> vhen'an'ara : the heart's desire  
> ara vherain : my lion cub
> 
> Meryell called her father babae, which by the definition of mamae / mama from Project Elvhen, would be the formal or archaic version of the title (as is mamae). That is his title, however. So Folke is the more informal or modern baba as her second father.
> 
> The company's song is an edit I made from an actual sea chanty, Roll and Go. Here's the full version:
> 
> There was a company, they rode for the sea,  
> O ho, fangs all out!  
> There was a company came home again.  
> Captain's brought us back around!
> 
> And what do you think they brought back now?  
> O ho, fangs all out!  
> There was diamonds, there was gold.  
> Captain's brought us back around!
> 
> And what reward was there for the men?  
> O ho, fangs all out!  
> Ladies and gents warm in our beds.  
> Captain's brought us back around!
> 
> O, many a company man comes home,  
> O ho, fangs all out!  
> Many a company man comes home.  
> Captain's brought us back around!


	9. "In the event that I possibly harm her, I will willingly surrender myself to your revenge, ser mage."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After waking up on the floor in Meryell's cabin, Cullen has a short conversation with Folke and follows it up with a very long, revealing conversation with the dear thief herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 9,464 words according to yWriter. Which makes it the longest chapter so far.

He was not in bed.

Cullen blinked a few times as the realization hit for several reasons. The first was the fact was that there was a hearth to his right, the embers inside of it off only just putting off enough to make the chill of the morning bearable. Second was that he was obviously on the floor not only from the hard surface digging into his shoulder blades despite whatever he was laying on but his proximity to the wooden beams of the ceiling. Third was that there was a warm presence curled up against his left side and that arm was also numb.

If the first two hadn't thoroughly cemented the fact that he wasn't in his own tent, the third on it's own would have. And he had a feeling he knew exactly who that presence was.

Turning his head and looking down, it was indeed Meryell molded against his side with most of her body hidden underneath his coat. Her dark head was pillowed on his shoulder - likely the reason his arm was asleep - and he was vaguely aware of the sensation of her hand clutching his own. One of her legs was also tossed over his, almost high enough to be uncomfortably close to... _things..._ but not quite. He still shifted as his cheeks blazed, rolling onto his side to try and keep her thigh from bumping into the half-hard length of his morning erection.

It was doubly embarrassing when her sleepy mind seemed to take his movement as invitation and snuggled closer, which put her _even closer_. Cullen swallowed hard and started to move to try and extricate her, resting his right hand on her shoulder, when a chuckle from across the room made him freeze. Slowly he turned his eyes towards Meryell's bed, where Folke sat reclined with a book in hand and a pair of narrow spectacles balanced on his nose.

"Good morning, Commander," commented the hedge mage mildly.

"F-Folke," he replied and cursed inwardly at the damned stutter over the mage's name. He wasn't some nineteen year-old boy anymore! And Meryell was no girl child! Why in the Maker's name did he feel like they turned back into such around Folke?!

The man chuckled and sat up, folding something into the pages of the book before he took off the spectacles and tucked them away inside his coat that was tossed over the end of the bed. Clasping his hands together, he leaned his elbows against his knees and pursed his lips. "Normally," began the mage conversationally, "this is where I threaten to set your blood on fire or gut you like a fish if you hurt my girl."

"Normally?" echoed Cullen, hoping his voice wasn't loud enough to wake Meryell.

"Well, I think you are well aware as a former templar that I simply _can't_ set your blood on fire given my abilities. So I'll have to settle for the gutting you like a fish threat."

"You think I'll hurt her?"

Folke's eyes narrowed at that and he growled, "I think every man in her life but me, the Captain, and her blood father have hurt my girl irreparably. You aren't the first man she's wanted in her bed...but I think you might be the first in a long while that she's wanted to _stay_ there. Even though she didn't say that out loud, I know my girl."

Cullen flushed at the insinuation, flustered at the warmth in his belly posed by the idea of _always_ being the one Meryell woke up next to. He then clasped his right hand behind his neck, rubbing the overly hot skin there in embarrassment, and said softly, "I would never deliberately hurt her." Part of him wanted to ask what those other men had done, if they had hurt her physically, then decided he didn't want to know. The rage the mere _thought_ kindled in his heart was enough to make him want to strangle a man.

If he had not been aware before that he'd fallen for the woman next to him, he would have known right then.

"If you do, you'll find me _and_ a whole angry company of brothers and sisters at your door, Commander," Folke hissed. He then eased himself off of the bed and carefully padded across the floor in only his stocking clad feet, bending to stroke his fingers through Meryell's hair. She made a pleased noise, one that sent Cullen's heart to pounding and made his groin clench up, and then the mage's gaze caught his. "The company may be our family, Commander Cullen, but she is my _asha'lan_ , my daughter. I take blood from those who hurt her."

He flicked his eyes down to Meryell's sleeping face and then Cullen lifted his gaze back up to meet Folke's. “In the event that I possibly harm her," he said quietly but firmly, "I will willingly surrender myself to your revenge, ser mage."

Folke's eyebrows rose at that and his mouth moved into what looked like the start of a whistle but he stopped himself before the sound could leave. "A templar giving himself into the hands of a mage, eh?" he queried.

"Meryell made note that you have...what was it...just enough magic to tweak the nose of the Maker?"

Now the mage laughed and he straightened before saying, "You're a good sort, Commander. You should tell her about the lyrium though."

Cullen gaped up at the man and Folke just laughed quietly.

"You think I don't know lyrium withdrawal just because I never lived in a Circle? We've had templars in our ranks many a time, Commander, and all of the mages are taught how to help them through it as best we can. Even ones as weak as me. I've a few teas and poultices I can make for you and I can probably bother a few of the stronger varieties of potion out of Gil. She's got a soft spot for you Ferelden lot since she was in the Circle there."

Staring at him for a moment and trying to intake all of the given information, Cullen finally simply said, "Thank you. And I...will. Tell her, that is. Soon." Likely today given the state he'd arrived in last night. The nightmares had come back in full force only a few nights after she'd left and the headaches had followed it, coming on slowly at first until they were full-on migraines through most of the day. It was why he'd set Rylen and Joane to training the men, excusing it as needing to catch up on paperwork. In reality, he'd spent those hours between trying to sleep and drinking in an attempt to dull the pain because his eyes swam too much to actually do any paperwork.

It had only been a few hours judging by the weak light coming in from outside the cabin but he already felt better rested. Not up to his usual par but...better. The headache from withdrawal still pulsed at his temples yet it was weaker than it had been the day before.

"Good," Folke noted with a smile. He then turned to walk over to where his boots were sitting at the end of Meryell's bed, pulling them on with the quick motions of a man who has rarely been anything but long on the road. As he finished, the mage picked up the book he'd been reading, tossed his coat over his arm, and said, "Good morning, Commander," before he strode to the door and left.

Cullen just stared after him for a moment before he let out a huff of breath and let his head fall to the rug beneath him with a rather surprisingly solid _thunk_. As he winced, he felt Meryell shift and she uttered a low grunt as she blinked open her eyes. He blinked down at her, not knowing quite what to expect from her, and started to open his mouth but she beat him to saying something first.

"You look better."

"I feel better," he said with a small smile. Then he immediately flushed when she gave a wriggle and extended a hand out from underneath his coat to touch the backs of her fingertips against his forehead. When she smiled, all pleased, he asked jokingly, "Do I have permission to rise, healer?"

Meryell snorted and disentangled herself from him, sitting up to start combing her fingers through her unruly hair. Instantly Cullen missed the contact, missed the heat of her body...but he did appreciate the pin-and-needle sensation of blood flow returning to his arm as he opened and closed his numb left hand several times. After a few moments he managed to sit up and scrubbed his not currently useless hand across his face, grimacing at the feel of the thick stubble on his cheeks. His hands had taken up shaking so much in the last few days that he hadn't dared risk shaving lest he end up inadvertently slitting his own throat.

She must have noticed his focus as Meryell turned towards him to say, "You look like a critter took up residence on your face."

He blinked at her before scratching his fingers through the stubble again, not having thought it was _that_ thick.

"You haven't been shaving?" she asked then and Cullen just shook his head in response. Even as he knew now that Folke and the company had dealt with former templars - which meant _Meryell_ had done the same - he still didn't want to tell her what he was putting himself through. He didn't want her to look at him with pity or, Maker forbid, disgust. With talk of lyrium came talk of templars and that invariably led to what he'd done as one.

The things he'd _ignored_. Had _allowed_. Had _said_. The things he had once _believed_ without a shadow of a doubt of all mages, even ones as weak as Folke.

He did not want to see the affection in her eyes turn to disgust.

"Can't," he found himself saying thickly. He wordlessly held up his right hand where she could see it, the fine shakes already causing the appendage to shiver.

Her eyes narrowed and then Meryell asked, "What the fuck is going on, Cullen?"

"I..."

The words caught in his throat and Cullen sat there staring open mouthed at her for a moment, his throat convulsing with the effort to both speak and _not_ at the same time. He then impulsively reached for her hands with his, curling his larger fingers around her smaller and stroking his thumbs across the calluses that lined the curve between her own thumb and forefinger. Meryell's fingers tightened around his own and she leaned forward, her voice gentle as she asked, "Talk to me?"

"You will think the worst of me," he breathed as he bowed his head over their joined hands.

"How about you let me make my own fucking judgements?"

"Because I _know_ ," he exploded, surprising himself even with the force of his shout. She seemed surprised by his outburst but not scared and Cullen looked away from her in shame. The word was thick on his tongue but he somehow managed to choke it out. " _Lyrium_ _._ "

"Lyri..." began Meryell only for her voice to abruptly fade out. Her hands twisted around his as she freed them, her calluses dragging at his own as they caught against each other, and his heart dropped in his chest that everything he thought was coming to pass. Who could truly care for a lyrium addict, after all?

Then Cullen found his face being dragged upward by those same hands and her copper-flecked eyes were wide with _fear_ as she stared at him.

" _Felasil_ ," she hissed in Elven as her gaze darted over him, looking for what he knew not. He didn't imagine that that particular word meant anything _nice_ either. "You suffer through withdrawal without anyone else knowing?"

"Cassandra knows," he offered weakly. "She is...she is _watching_ me." Technically Rylen also knew but he'd guessed while Cassandra and Meryell were the only people he'd told outright.

"Well I'm glad someone had the good fucking sense the Maker supposedly gave the lot of us to do so!" snapped Meryell. Her sudden ire then faded away and he was left looking at the fear in her eyes again, with absolutely nothing he could do about it. She stroked her fingers lightly across his face before she said softly, "I'm certain you know the risks but... _why_? Can I ask at least that?"

 _That_ was a question Cullen could answer.

"Because the Order was no longer something that deserved my loyalty."

“No,” Meryell said fiercely, “that's why you _left_ the Order. I asked why you stopped taking _lyrium_ _._ I know full well that the Inquisition could keep you supplied so access wasn't the issue.”

Closing his eyes, Cullen just focused on his own breathing and her fingers that were still stroking his cheeks for a moment. He had to, had to take that time to find the words he needed. The words _she_ needed.

She was his _friend_ , his... _something_ that was maybe more than that.

Meryell had told him things she'd shared with no one else in Haven. Did she not deserve the same in return?

Licking his lips, Cullen began by saying, “Lyrium is what keeps us bound to the Order, leashed to it and the whims of the Chantry as much as a mage is bound by us and their phylactery. To break with the Order really and truly, to be free of those chains, I had to stop. Even though it could kill me or worse. I would not, _could not_ be bound to that life any longer.” He paused and shuddered before adding, “It took too much from me already. It betrayed utterly what I thought it was, what it stood for. I could not continue to serve knowing that.”

“I was...Kirkwall changed me, it made me who I am but _before that_ I…” He let his voice trail off as he swallowed thickly. “You weren't in Ferelden during the Blight. What did you hear about the fall of the Circle at Kinloch?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “Not really until, oh, the beginning of my third year in the ranks? That was when Gil found us. Before that was that it fell, the Wardens saved it, and anyone who'd been inside the Tower had died.”

A dark chuckle rumbled through him at that. It was true, though, wasn't it? There had been two very distinct Cullen Rutherford’s in Ferelden that year: the one before the Tower’s fall and the one who survived it. By and large, they weren't the same man.

“Is _that_ what they say?” he found himself commenting with more than a bit of venom. “I understand them wanting to protect those of us that did but denying anyone survived seems a bit excessive.” Shaking himself, he moved on and asked, “And what does...Gil, was it...what does she say about it?”

He tried to remember the name, the face, of the mage as he recalled suddenly Folke mentioning that same mage as having been from the Ferelden Circle. There was nothing though, no recollection of her at all.

“That the Tower was taken by demons,” replied Meryell, her voice firm but her fingers quivered against his face. “She was one of the few who managed to make it to the door before the templars sealed it. After that, all she knew was the aftermath. That the First Enchanter somehow survived but no other mages held at the top of the Tower did, that almost everyone she knew who had been trapped was dead from either mage or Warden, and that one…” She trailed off, voice dying in her throat, and he watched realization bloom in her face.

“Meryell,” he breathed.

Her fingers stroked across his face, nails scraping harshly through his stubble as she lowered her hands to rest them heavily against his shoulders. _She_ was shaking now, he could feel it through the press of the heel of her palms against bone, and he took action without thinking. Grabbing her hips, Cullen lifted her bodily onto his lap while ignoring her little gasp, swinging her around so she sat sideways across his legs, and wrapped his arms around her. One arm held her tight to him, his right hand hooked around her hip, and the other pulled her upper half fully to him. He dropped his head to her shoulder because otherwise he was too close to her face and let out a ragged breath.

She _fit_. Like she was _made_ to be right there.

After a moment, Meryell’s hands tangled in his tunic, clutching tight as she whispered in a matter-of-fact tone like she was directly quoting Gil, “One templar, trapped at the top of the Tower outside the Harrowing Chamber, survived. Tortured by demons, they say. He was young and the sort that could have been one of those templars mages don’t fear, one of the truly _good ones_. They changed him, they made him _hate us_ , and no one did anything about it. It was part of why I escaped.”

Cullen shuddered at the words but caught particularly at the last. _No one did anything about it_. No, no one had, not until he’d drawn his sword on a terrified apprentice who hadn’t done anything wrong and had shouted down the Tower. That was when Greagoir had finally taken action and sent him to Greenfell where he’d weathered out the last half of the Blight. Yet...it was the _way_ Meryell quoted it.

The Tower had had many occupants during his first year there but not so many that one couldn’t feasibly know everyone who lived there by sight if not by name. Gil had known enough about him (even if he couldn't recall her off the top of his head) to say that he could have been one of the good ones. And them doing nothing for him - which Greagoir had _not_ because Greenfell hadn’t really helped and they'd waited until he'd nearly _attacked someone_ until they did anything \- had been part of why she’d left.

That _he_ had meant so much to a _mage_ when he had been at his worst...Maker, he didn’t know what to think of that.

So instead he just nodded his head against Meryell’s shoulder and said hoarsely, “Me.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

“As much as I know you love that word, that does not even _begin_ to describe it.”

That made her giggle, high and loud and edging towards hysterical, and then she asked, “Kirkwall?”

Cullen blinked before lifting his head to say, “You don’t think _that_ was enough for today?”

Meryell shifted then, pushing herself just enough away from him that she could look into his eyes. He looked down at her, idly thinking that it would be so _easy_ to kiss her right then and there...but no. _No._ They were not there. Not yet.

But...maybe? She wasn’t _running away_ as he feared or looking at him in disgust.

So maybe...maybe someone _could_ care for a half-broken lyrium addict.

“Would you tell me if we left this room and I asked you in an hour?” she pressed. “Tomorrow? The day after that? Tell me truly, Cullen, would you fucking drag this...this _horror_ back out after putting it away again?”

There was only one answer to that.

“No.”

She nodded sharply and then shifted, for a moment making him think that she was going to rise. Instead she brought a furious blush to his face as she slid one leg across him so she was sitting _astride_ his lap and scooted back forward to wrap her arms around him. He could instantly feel the _heat_ of her pressing down on him even through her breeches and his trousers and felt his body react, cursing silently because she _surely_ felt it. There had never been a comparison with any others - he hadn't done that sort of barracks game - but he knew that he wasn't _small_ down there.

Meryell slowly tensed and he started to open his mouth to apologize but she just said, “Well...this probably wasn’t my brightest fucking idea.”

He swallowed thickly before replying, “No. Probably not.”

“Part of you doesn't seem to mind all that much though.” She said the words softly, almost too low for him to hear them even with how close they were. Cullen looked down at where she was leaning against his chest, finding her looking up at him with a gaze that was both coy and nervous at the same time. His cock twitched in response to that look and he cautiously ran his hands up her legs until he could grasp her hips with both. She gasped and trembled in his lap, her face flushed, her pupils blown wide.

“No,” he replied and it came out more growl than anything. “I don't mind, Meryell.” Then Cullen dragged in a deep breath and lifted her hips, moving her just enough back that she wasn't sitting on top of his groin. “But I think,” he continued, “that neither of us is ready for a relationship. Much as we may both want one. And I don't want you to think that you're just some notch on my bedpost. You're more than that.”

He fully expected her to disagree but found her instead nodding in response as she took several deep breaths. “You're right,” she said. “I...I know I still have things to work through.” Meryell bit her lip when she said it and her perched astride his lower thighs with her lower lip caught between her teeth just made him all the harder. "And...thank you. For saying that about bedposts."

If he had less self control or respect for her, he'd probably have pinned her to the floor and taken her right there if she was ready and willing just from that look. Instead he just nodded, smiled, and _pushed_ the thoughts about doing just that back away to the depths of his brain.

Cautiously, he lifted a hand and brushed some of her ragged locks of hair behind her ear, one finger idly tracing the topmost edge of the pointed flesh. She flinched, just barely as though she was holding herself back from more, and he noted that to ask her at a later date. Quickly he moved his hand down to her cheek, cupping it as he asked, “Maybe we can help each other?”

Meryell smiled and pressed into his touch, her voice soft as she replied, “I think I'd like that, Cullen."

"Good."

She laughed at that then pulled away, rising effortlessly to her feet with his coat swinging around her. Cullen bit back a laugh at the way it hung on her frame, the fur practically swallowing her and the folds of red and gold reaching past her knees. Then his traitorous brain thought of how it would look with her wearing _only_ that while standing above him like she was and he very nearly groaned as his cock pressed hard against the laces of his trousers.

"Having trouble?"

Flicking his eyes up at her, he growled, "You know _exactly_ what kind of trouble I'm having."

Meryell just arched an eyebrow, attempting to feign innocence but he'd seen the look she was wearing right now plenty of times. She was _pleased_ that he was so uncomfortable. _Pleased at the effect she had on him._ Then she laughed and reached out to him with both hands, saying, "I'll stop teasing."

Snorting, Cullen grasped one of her offered hands and pushed off of the floor with his other as she braced herself and pulled him upright. As he straightened, he smiled down at her while running a hand through his hair and silently cursing the state of it.

"It's not _all_ you, trust me."

"Oh?" she asked, eyes lighting up with curiosity. "And here I thought you a fucking _saint_ , Cullen. Are you telling me that there's a little bit of a dirty mind hiding in that pretty head?"

Growling at the word 'pretty' - which was the favorite word applied to him lately by some, particularly Leliana and Josephine - Cullen reached out to touch her hips and slowly push her back against the nearest wall. She let out a gasp as he tucked a knee between her legs and bent enough so he could press her bodily against the wall. It wasn't comfortable but he didn't think that he currently had the strength or stability to lift her with withdrawal still wracking his limbs.

Meryell arched her neck, as if inviting him to have access to it, her breath coming in harsh gasps, and he leaned in close. Slowly he breathed out against her skin, trailing the tip of his nose along her neck, before pressing a chaste kiss against the jut of her jaw. Cullen closed his eyes as he breathed, "I am _no_ fucking saint, Meryell."

"Fucking _noted_ ," she hissed before turning her head to sloppily kiss his forehead. He took that as his moment to stop and pulled slowly away from her despite everything in him screaming _take her take her_ in response to her body's pliant reaction to his own. Cautiously, he held her steady with one hand while he leaned the other against the wall so they could both regain their bearings.

After a moment, he said, "Kirkwall."

"Uh-uh, wait a moment," replied Meryell, holding up a hand for him to stop. She then ducked shakily underneath his arm and moved to her bed, tugging the covers back into some semblance of order since Folke had used them and tossing the myriad pillows she seemed to have towards the head of the bed. As she climbed onto it and lay back against the pillows, his mouth went abruptly dry even though he knew nothing was going to happen.

"M-Meryell..."

She gestured almost imperiously towards him, like a queen upon her throne, and then patted the bed. "Lay down," she instructed. "You can tell me about Kirkwall while I see if I can do something for your head."

Cullen frowned and she quickly said, "You're _squinting_."

Now that she mentioned it, the slight haze of want and need faded and behind all of it he felt all of the aches and pains come back. His head was pounding fiercely, pain radiating outward from his temples and the base of his skull, and suddenly the bed looked like the most inviting thing in the room. Not that it hadn't _already_ since Meryell was on it but now it was doubly so.

Sighing, he moved to the bed and cautiously climbed onto it, laying on his back a decent distance from her. Meryell immediately scoffed and tugged at the neck of his tunic, urging him closer to her. "I don't _bite_ ," she scolded. "Not unless asked."

" _Maker's breath_ ," breathed Cullen at _that_ comment before he scooted up the bed. He finally lay just below her, his head almost practically in her lap, and asked, "Here?"

"Yes," she replied before shifting slightly so she could sink both hands into his hair. He groaned at the contact, eyes fluttering shut, and found himself arching up off of the bed without even thinking about it, pressing his skull upward into her hands and trapping them against the bed. She laughed and he blinked open his eyes to find her leaning over him, her mouth quirked up into a smirk that made him want to kiss her all over again. "I can't do anything if you _have_ my hands, _vhen'an'ara_. Now, where is it worst?"

Smiling, he forced himself to relax, laying flat again. Cullen then gestured vaguely towards his temples, saying, "There," before he tucked his hand underneath his head to where the thick bone of his skull ended. "And there."

"Normal places for headaches then," noted Meryell as he let his arm fall back to his side. "Both about the same level of pain?" He nodded and she hummed before saying, "Alright. Folke had me help out a few of our former templars in the company when he didn't have an extra set of hands or one of the other mages. Sometimes this shit works...sometimes it doesn't. Depends on the templar."

"Either way," Cullen said with a slight smile up at her, catching her eyes, "I think I will be better because it was you doing it."

She flushed at that but smiled as she moved her hands through his hair, careful not to pull too hard on the curls that inevitably would be surrounding and trying to trap her hands. Her fingertips then brushed over his temples, calluses snatching at the skin briefly before they settled and she put on the slightest amount of pressure as she began to rub her fingers in small circles. He groaned as the very _edge_ of his headache lessened and then vaguely heard her press, "Kirkwall, Cullen."

Nodding just slightly so as to not upset her ministrations...he started talking. From the beginning, from the very moment he stepped off the boat that had brought him from Ferelden to the Free Marches, he told it _all_. Including all the worst parts.

Meryell commentated through the whole of it, either by laughing at whatever she thought was funny, humming just low enough that he could hear to keep him going when he paused, or making ribald comments that nearly rivaled that pirate of Hawke's every once in a while. Halfway through, she'd moved her hands to where she was cupping the back of his head in her palms and worked her fingers in the same fashion over the aching spot at the base of his skull. By the time he was done, recounting when Cassandra had found him still working to help the city recover as he could, she had one hand back at his temples and the other pressed to the top of his head, her fingers stroking back and forth across the curve of his skull.

"Well?" he asked, almost expecting her to move or to tell him to get out. With the things he'd done in Kirkwall, he expected it.

Meryell, as usual, did not do what he expected.

She merely hummed and leaned over him again, pulling her hands from his hair so she could frame his face with them. As her fingers stroked across his cheeks, he blinked at her from upside down and asked, "Meryell?"

"You are _sa_ _itathe_ _telsilaan_ ," she said softly, her expression fond. When he wrinkled his nose in confusion because he didn't understand a bit of Elven, she laughed. "One who has seen much trouble. But...that doesn't make you anything less. You are still the Inquisition's _Rajelan_ , it's Commander."

“The things I've done…”

“Cannot be erased,” she interrupted. “But you know that. You are not trying to erase what you did or what happened to you. Cullen, you are trying to become _better_ and any who fault you that are fool's not worth even fucking knowing.”

Shaking his head, he impulsively reached up to cup her cheek, delighted when she did not pull away but instead pressed _into_ his touch. “Whatever did I do,” he asked softly, “for the Maker to send me you?”

Meryell wrinkled her nose at that but she knew he believed just as he knew she did not. “Maybe,” she replied, “we both just got lucky.”

“Maybe.”

His stomach growled then, echoed by hers a moment later, and they stared at the each other before bursting into laughter. At the same time there was a knock on the cabin door and she called out a hearty _Enter_ before Cullen could catch his breath. Thankfully it was Folke, who probably wouldn't be _too_ weird about the situation he found them in.

“Been talking all day, have we?” he asked as he closed the door and swung around to show he was balancing a nearly overflowing tray in the other hand. “It's nearly sunset.”

“ _Sunset!_ ” exclaimed Cullen, sitting up to look out the high window above the bed. He could indeed see the darkening sky now, something that he hadn't noticed changing the entire time since he'd woken up. “My men…”

Folke waved a hand flippantly before he used both hands to set the tray on the table. “Never fear, Commander, I very quietly informed your second that you were indisposed today. He seemed to take that in easy stride, made some comment about _Hoping that shite he's putting himself through gives up soon_ in that dashing Starkhaven accent of his, and was on his merry way.” The man grinned at them then pointed the forefinger of both hands down at the tray. “ _Now_ , I've got a portion of that stew from the tavern, a few sandwiches made of...something...that I filched from the mess tent, a jug of water, a bottle of my girl’s favorite whiskey, and a whole loaf of Demut’s sweet apple bread.”

“Dem made apple bread?” exclaimed Meryell, clapping her hands together like an excited child. “Fuck, Folke, how did you get a whole damned loaf away from her?”

“The usual way to get anything out of Dem: bribery.” The mage then smiled and added, "Now I'm going to get back out of your way so you can continue whatever you were doing on the bed. Oh, and Commander, I included a little box to make one of those teas I was talking about. I think my girl can show you how to make it."

"Shoo, _baba_ , and let me take care of my Commander."

" _Your_ Commander? Oh, well that moved rather quickly didn't it, girlie?"

Meryell's eyes narrowed and Cullen chuckled before he leaned over and kissed her cheek in another of those impulsive moves that had been happening today. "No, it didn't," he replied to Folke's comment as he watched her blush, "but that doesn't negate that I am _hers_."

"Cullen," she breathed softly, her eyes showing some emotion that he couldn't quite put words to.

Folke let out a low whistle before saying, "Well well...I know when I'm not needed. Be good, _da'lenen_. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

 _That_ comment dragged Meryell's attention away from Cullen and she turned towards Folke to snarl, "Get the fuck out, you buggering busy body!" The mage just laughed in response before he ducked out of the cabin, closing the door securely behind him. As his footsteps faded, she rubbed the tips of two of her fingers against the bridge of her nose. "He's a damned menace."

Shaking his head, Cullen touched her knee to draw her attention back to him. When she finally looked at him curiously, he said gently, "He loves you."

"'Course he does," she replied, "I'm fucking amazing."

Laughing at that, he nodded. "That you are."

Meryell's blush, which hadn't entirely gone away, returned to full strength at that comment and she hurriedly scooted her way across the bed. She then turned and held out both hands, saying, "Well, come on before all of this shit gets cold. How's your head? Did it help?"

"Some," he replied. The ache in his temples was certainly less though the pressure at the base of his skull hadn't lessened all that much.

"I'll make some of that tea then." As she moved across the room towards the hearth, she asked, "Is it always...is it always as bad as this?"

Frowning as he moved to climb off the bed, Cullen replied, "No, this is actually one of the worst times it's been since I stopped after leaving Kirkwall. Normally, though, it's not all that bad. Usually I just get _one_ reaction to the lack of lyrium, not almost every one of them at once." Walking over to the table as he finished, he arranged the chairs next to each other before he began portioning out the food, using a knife that Folke had apparently also included on the tray to cut the sandwiches in half. There wasn't another bowl for the stew, he noticed, but there were two spoons.

He hadn't noticed how dark it was in the room until the firelight bloomed from behind his back, making his shadow dance along the wall that held the door. Then a hand lightly touched his back and Meryell leaned past him to reach for the jug of water as she said, "He's lucky I keep those tin cups, otherwise we'd both be drinking out of this." When he arched an eyebrow at her and flicked his eyes towards the whiskey bottle - which was what he'd expected her to grab - she chuckled. "Water first with food, then tea for you, _then_ we can break into the whiskey."

Chuckling in return, he said, "Fine, fine. I follow the thief's obviously superior knowledge of these things."

"Damned right."

They smiled at each other as they settled at the table, elbows bumping periodically and their knees pressed up against each other from the way he'd set the chairs. The first thing to be devoured were the sandwiches, which turned out to be slices of mutton with something spread on the inside of the bread that neither of them could identify (but was delicious). As they finished those, the kettle whistled and Meryell rose to get it, returning to swiftly put together the hot water and tea leaves from the little box Folke had left in his empty cup. When she sat back down, it was with her legs casually tossed across his lap, and he rested a hand on one bare shin when he didn't require both hands for the bowl of stew as they passed it back and forth between each other.

"Now," Meryell said, as they finished and she reached for the small cloth wrapped package on the tray, revealing it to be the aforementioned bread, "the proper way to eat Dem's apple bread is with milk but that's one of those things the Inquisition seems short of. So we'll just have to make do."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," he replied as she watched her use the knife to cut two slices off the end before taking the one she handed to him. He sniffed lightly before raising it to his mouth, catching the warm scent of freshly baked bread (despite the loaf now being cold), apples, and cinnamon. As he bit into it, Cullen closed his eyes and hummed in pleasure.

"Good, yeah?"

" _Fucking_ good," he corrected.

Meryell laughed, shaking her head as she said, "I am such a bad influence on your language! You didn't cuss a lick until I came around, did you?"

Shrugging, he replied, "Not really," before he picked up his cup and cautiously sipped the hot liquid. It was a bit more bitter than the tea he remembered from his childhood or what he'd made himself in Kirkwall (he preferred a healthy portion of sugar in his but he'd make do without for now until he could ask Folke if that might interfere with the tea) but as it ran down his throat to pool in his belly, he _did_ lose the very edge of his headache. Blinking down at the cup, Cullen took another drink before saying, "Folke knows his stuff.”

“As annoying as my _baba_ can be sometimes, he is very skilled with what meager talent he possesses. And he _says_ his mother was Chasind which is how he learnt all of the herbal remedies he knows that no one else does.”

Blinking, he tilted the cup slightly towards himself before asking, “Does that include this one?”

As Meryell nodded he let out a huff of breath. He supposed it wasn't surprising in it's own way since the Chasind had their own mages.

Then he turned to look at her and said, “ _Baba_. What does that mean?”

Chuckling, she replied, “It's Elven for father. We may not have met until I was fifteen but Folke took care of me in the company. He also wasn't like the _hahren_ at the alienage who wanted me to just forget everything my _babae_ , my blood father, taught me. Folke wanted to learn it too and he wanted me to know whatever I could use to my advantage since well…” Meryell trailed off as she waved a hand before finishing, “You know as well as I fucking do that elves in Thedas are treated like shit.”

“I do,” he agreed. Then Cullen frowned and noted, “I was under the impression that the elves in alienages didn't know much Elven, that that was purely knowledge among the Dalish? Mind you, I don’t know much about the life of elves in alienages other than seeing what I did in Kirkwall on the occasion that my duties took me there."

Meryell just smiled. "That's the normal way of it. My _babae_ , he was Dalish born and only came to the South Reach alienage because he was captured by templars."

"Templars?" he repeated, surprised. "What did templars have to do with a random Dalish elf?"

"If I tell you, it goes no further than us?" Her nose wrinkled and her lip curled as she snarled, "I don't want that _el'u'verelan_ to know anymore about me than she already does. Not until she learns to stop digging so deep that she scrapes bedrock."

" _Ehl_ _..._ _ooo_ _..._ _ver_ _...eh...lan_?" Cullen echoed cautiously, trying to sound out the word exactly as she said it. "I'm not sure what the translation of that is but I'm going to guess by the anger in your voice that you're talking about Leliana."

Sighing, she nodded. "Yes," Meryell answered. "There is no word for _spy_ or _bard_ in Elven so the equivalent I've always used is _secret taker_." She then smiled and added, "You would be my _el'u'amelan_ , my _secret keeper_."

" _Ehl_ _..._ _ooo_ _...am...eh...lan_ ," he said slowly before he leaned in close to her, his fingers stroking idly across the skin of her bare leg as he moved his hand back to it. "I told you that your secrets remain your own with me, Meryell. I still mean that. Do you doubt that now?"

" _Din!_ No! I don't...I _trust you_ , Cullen. I just..." Shaking her head, she continued, "I'm not...I'm not used to talking about them, about my parents. After I left South Reach I tried to put it behind me, everything that happened. When I spoke of them to you after that meeting before before I left was the first time I've talked about them I've at _least_ five years. And that's being fucking generous."

She paused for a moment, biting her lip, and he just watched her while continuing to gently stroke her leg. Meryell then wrapped her arms around herself after running a hand back through her hair, making it spike wildly upward as she stared off into nothing.

"My _mamae_ dying the way she did and then finding _babae_ in the street...I was eleven that year, Cullen. I never had _anything_ but them. _Mamae_ was born in South Reach but my _mamaela_ \- my grandmother - she was from Highever, brought in for one of those arranged marriages to my _babaela_ that they do in the alienages to keep blood fresh. They died when I was still little, too small to even remember them. And _babae_ was Dalish so, even knowing the name of the clan he was originally from, there was no guarantee of ever finding them again since clans always travel."

"Who took care of you?" asked Cullen gently, feeling his heart ache for her. Even with the years between, the death of her parents still seemed to weigh on her so much. Which, to be honest, was a thing he could understand entirely given that he had only in the past few years come to actually realize how disconnected he'd been when Mia had written him of their parents deaths during the Blight. It was only recently that he had honestly mourned them.

She shrugged one shoulder before replying, "The _hahren_ gave me shelter and food but...beyond that I took care of myself. You asked about _babae_ and the templars though."

"I did," he replied, "but I want to hear it all. I should if I am to be your... _eh-loo-am-eh-lan_ , yes? Did I pronounce that right?"

" _Vin_. Yes." Meryell then smiled. "And you're a little slow at it but otherwise correct. Elven takes time to learn. It took Folke several years before he could even properly string together a sentence." She then took a breath before saying, "My _babae_..."

"Templars."

"Yes. He was a youth not many years older than I was when I joined the Fangs and out beyond the clan's camp with his best friend. They got a little too close to a village and, as some humans are wont to do, someone told a tale to the templars about them doing magic. I'm sure there was a fucking slur in there because fuck all if some can't call us something polite half the time. Anyway, they caught my father but not his friend and took him to Kinloch to be tested for magic."

Cullen nodded slowly before saying, "And when they discovered he didn't have magic, I'm guessing a patrol dropped him off in South Reach at the alienage while on their way to a reported mage child."

She dipped her head in a nod before she continued.

"The _hahren_ of the time took him in. _Babae_ tried to escape many times to try and make it back to his clan but eventually the _hahren_ made the point firm that by then they were probably long gone. That was when he abandoned his family name."

Blinking, he said, "Wait...Verlen isn't your actual family name?"

Meryell chuckled darkly as she replied, "No. _Babae_ was originally Terys Arauven from the Suinasvenla. Verlen means _taken child_. So he became Terys Verlen, _mamae_ became Sarra Verlen when they were married, and I am Meryell Verlen. Sometimes I'll use Arauven for a job when I don't want people tracking me by my real name or even my _mamae_ ’ _s_ original name, Ivun. "

“Why not permanently change it?”

“Because…” She paused for a long moment then continued, “Because it was the name _babae_ chose. To take the one he abandoned fully felt too much like a betrayal.” Meryell then grinned brightly at him. “Plus it's fucking _hard_ for anyone who's not versed in Elven to say. You got off easy, Rutherford.”

Chuckling as he nodded, Cullen decided to steer the topic onward. “So being that he was Dalish, your father taught you Elven.”

Nodding back, she said, “And Dalish teachings. _Mamae_ didn't approve of it - she thought it a foolish thing to hold onto the past as tightly as the Dalish do - but she let _babae_ have his way.” A smile flashed across her face, bright as a star and gone as blindingly fast as it had appeared, but he caught it. Cullen swore right then that he would figure out how to summon that smile more often. “It was our _secret_ language, mine and _babae_ ’ _s_.”

“Did the _hahren_ know how much it meant to you? When he took you in?”

"He knew. Everyone in the alienage thought he still held onto the _old ways_ as they called them." Meryell snorted before she continued, "They were ever so wrong. My _babae_ came to realize just how detached the Dalish have become, how proud and arrogant they sound, as he saw both worlds. So he taught me only the teachings that he thought best and strove to make something better. That's what he always told me: _whatever you do, ara_ _dharlin_ _, make it better than what came before._ ”

Smiling, Cullen softly said, "It sounds like he was a smart man.”

She just smiled back sadly in response and murmured, "He was."

Rubbing her leg for a moment in silence, he asked, "That Elven he called you... _arr_ _-a..._ _da_ _..._ _har_ _..._ _lin_. A pet name?"

Meryell laughed at that and replied, "Oh yes. A very Ferelden pet name at that." He cast her a confused look at that response and she laughed all the harder for a moment before she spoke again. " _Ara_ _dharlin_ is essentially baby hound."

Cullen felt a grin stretching his face at that and laughed as he said, "Pup! Your father called you Pup!" He remembered his own father calling him and his siblings that and knew personally that it was a common endearment amongst his own countrymen. Hawke had used the name for her own younger brother in his hearing once or twice, before and after Carver had joined the templars.

"I told you it was very Ferelden!"

"I apologize for not believing the thief's word," he intoned seriously while trying to quell his laughter, inclining his head respectfully towards her. Then he cocked his head and asked, "Does Folke have one for you?"

Nodding, she replied, " _Ara_ _vherain_. My lion cub. Because I was...oh, what was it he said...as fierce and fearless as any mountain cat when we met." Meryell then smiled tightly at him and asked, "Off topic...we still have that bottle of whiskey. And you seem to be done with your tea."

Cullen nodded slowly, considering whether he _should_ stay to drink some of that bottle with her. He didn't _want_ to leave by any means but...he had spent one night already and the vast majority of a day inside her cabin. Albeit part of it was in recovery from his withdrawals but still...the sensible part of him felt it was time wasted when he could have been doing something else (even if logically his withdrawals wouldn't have allowed him to do so).

The more emotional part was content to stay. Not the least because Meryell was warmly tucked next to him with her legs in his lap. And it surely wouldn't _hurt_ for him to stay longer.

Turning his cup upside down, he tapped it against the tray Folke had brought to try and dislodge the tea leaves that clung to the inside. Seeing it wasn't going to happen, he brought his other hand up from where it was resting on her leg in order to help with scraping the now slightly gunky leaves from the cup. That done, Cullen sat it in front of her with a smile.

"I think whiskey is just the thing after today," he replied.

She beamed at him in response and leaned forward to grab the bottle, pouring a hearty portion into each of their cups. Picking hers up, she held it up and out towards him as she said sharply, " _On'vun_ _!_ " Cullen blinked at her for a moment before he picked up his own cup and clinked the side against hers, guessing that the word was an Elven toast.

"Cheers," he said with a smile before lifting his cup to his mouth. Meryell grinned as she did the same and as they both set their cups back down on the table, he asked, "Was that a toast?"

"It means _good life_ ," she replied. Then she twisted her right leg in his lap to dig her toes against his side before saying, "And since I gave you a story about my _babae_ , I want to hear a story about yours."

Arching his eyebrows, Cullen asked, "Is it story for a story tonight, dear thief?"

"Perhaps," she replied with a cocky grin that was all teeth.

"In that case I think you're a bit behind but I suppose I'll be magnanimous and ignore that. For tonight at least."

Laughing, Meryell gave him an exaggerated bow from the waist up. "Why _thank you_ , kind sir."

"I like to think I'm generous," he shot back with a grin. When he got a giggle in response, Cullen launched into one of the earliest memories he had of his father where he and Mia were both small enough still to ride on his shoulders at the same time and Branson wasn't even born yet. That story led to another and _another_ and then he paused to let her tell one that something he'd said had reminded her of. Then he'd begun another as she refilled their cups for the third or fourth time, followed by her having another...and the night continued like that until the fire was banked low on the hearth, the whiskey bottle was empty, and his alcohol fuzzy brain registered that the first rays of light were filtering in through the high windows that faced the east.

"Maker's breath," he muttered as he wiped a hand down his face. "I can't believe we...Meryell?"

Turning, Cullen felt as if the whole world softened just that little bit. Meryell was still upright in her chair but she was sound asleep, her head turned towards the back and her mouth just a little open to let out the occasional tiny snore. She looked as at peace now as she had during those last days he'd sat with her while she was still bed-bound from her injury.

But that chair was going to murder her back.

Carefully extricating her legs from his lap, he rose to his feet and wavered for a moment before he refound his balance. For a moment he pondered whether his plan was really a good idea then shrugged the doubt aside. He felt better now being drunk than he had earlier while sober. Certainly well enough even with withdrawals to pick her up.

Cullen cautiously slid his arms underneath her and Meryell shifted, mumbling nonsense that may or may not have been Elven in her sleep but she didn't wake. He let out a breath of relief and lifted her, carrying her easily across the cabin to her bed. As he laid her down he realized that she was on top of her blankets but his coat was tossed over one of the headboard posts, though he wasn't sure exactly when she had taken it off. When they were on the bed?

Shaking his head, he tucked it around her and brushed hair away from her face a little clumsily. Impulsively, he bent to kiss her forehead and as he pulled away found a callused hand cupping his face.

"Stay," Meryell breathed, her eyes still closed, seemingly asleep beyond the fact that she'd just spoken. Cullen blinked down at her, ready to refuse, to state that he really should go back to his tent.

That, of course, wasn't what came out of his mouth.

He blamed the alcohol and exhaustion. And the fact that he rather honestly didn't want to leave.

"Yes, dear thief," he murmured. She made a wordless happy noise and released him, wriggling her way a little across the bed to make room for him. He paused for a moment before he climbed onto the bed and lay on his side, just watching her for a moment before he reached out to loop an arm around her waist. Meryell gave a little exhalation as Cullen dragged her across the bed so she was tightly pressed against his chest and opened her eyes to look at him.

" _Nydha_ ," she said softly. "Good night, Cullen. _Son era._ Sleep well."

Smiling, he pressed a kiss to her temple then buried his nose in her hair as he closed his eyes, breathing, " _Son err-ah_ ," back at her. Meryell let out a little huff of laughter in response, turning her head to the side and tilting it back so she could bump her nose sharply against his chin. Her breathing then evened back out and he knew that she was asleep once again.

Cullen smiled and let his own breathing slowly even out, feeling himself already drifting towards the yawning abyss. He could only hope that all of the talk of the day didn't summon any more of his old nightmares as talking about what had happened to him was wont to do. In the end, he didn't need to worry about it.

When he woke hours later, Cullen realized that he had slept without dreams or nightmares for the first time in too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvhen/Elven Translations:**
> 
> asha'lan : daughter  
> felasil : fool  
> sa itathe telsilaan : one who has seen much trouble (sa = one, itha + -the = seen, telsila + -aan = many trouble)  
> rajelan : commander  
> baba / babae = father  
> da'lenen : children (da'len = child, -en = multiple)  
> el'u'verelan : secret taker (el'u = secret + verelan = taker)  
> el'u'amelan : secret keeper (el'u = secret + amelan = keeper, protector, guardian)  
> mamaela : grandmother  
> babaela : grandfather  
> arauven : ara = my + nuven = wish, desire, want, greed  
> suinasvenla : suinast (suina) = silent + venla (ven) = steps  
> din : no  
> vin : yes  
> verlen : taken child  
> ara dharlin : pup  
> on'vun : good life  
> nydha : good night  
> son era : sleep well
> 
> * * *
> 
> I figure that surely someone somewhere in Thedas has figured out that some people have trouble seeing and has figured out magnifying glasses. Thus, Folke's spectacles are basically the earliest equivalent of glasses: rivet spectacles. (http://www.college-optometrists.org/en/college/museyeum/online_exhibitions/spectacles/rivet.cfm)


	10. "You thinking I'm going to see trouble in the Storm Coast, Captain?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When an offer comes in to possibly hire another mercenary company, Meryell's first stop is her Captain to see if he knows anything about them. After that, it's just the matter of heading out to the Storm Coast to actually recruit these Bull's Chargers, which turns out to be more of an interesting endeavor than originally thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We shall call this the 'meeting more of the company' chapter since about nine of them decided that they wanted to jump into existence for this one.

“You lookin’ for your pa, girlie?” asked Harvard, one of the company’s oldest veterans, as Meryell strode up into the space around the main campfire. He was probably in his seventies by now with a heavily scarred face and close-cropped white hair that showed off an equally scarred scalp. Harvard was still as smart as a whip, though, and while no longer capable in a full-on fight, he still served the company as the main face of those who whipped new recruits into shape. She recalled her own time under his hand with a certain fondness as he'd had a soft spot for the foul-mouthed brat she'd been a decade ago.

That and he'd gleefully added to her already considerable bank of curse words.

“For once I'm not, Vard,” she replied before dropping into an open camp chair that had been left around the fire. “I'm actually hunting for the Captain. Got a question about another company for him.”

“Another company?” piped up the broadly built blonde Astrid, who was sitting on the ground next to Harvard with her back propped against a cut tree that served as a bench. She paused in the sharpening of the axe head in her hands to look up and arch an eyebrow playfully. “You're not thinking of getting rid of us already are you?”

Shaking her head at the Anders woman’s question, Meryell replied, “As if you fuckers would go if I did.” As Astrid chuckled, she continued, “There was a member of their company here apparently because his boss wants to work with the Inquisition. I figure if they're decent we could always use more hands.”

Harvard nodded in response before growling, “What's the name, girlie? Maybe I remember them.”

“Bull’s Chargers. It sounds familiar but I've never heard of them directly that I can recall.”

“Nah, don't know that one.” Harvard then smiled as he added, “Was a member of a Chargers once. Just The Chargers, nothing else to it. Captain of that bunch was a shit kicker.”

“That the one you knifed in the back before you joined up with us, old man?” asked Astrid with a wry smile and a wink at Meryell. It was no secret in the company that Harvard had been a war dog long before he'd joined the Fangs. If you had trained under him, you had heard at least ten of his tales before the first bout to test your ability was done.

He grinned back at her, saying, “No, no, you're thinking of the Red Flame. What a fucking tosser he was. Started crying before I even had the knife out of my sheath…”

“And it was my eating knife to boot!” said Meryell and Astrid together with broad smiles on their faces. Harvard scoffed fondly at them then flipped an age-spotted hand in a shooing motion at Meryell before pointing back the way she came.

“Captain's up with your Commander,” he said, finally answering her initial question. “Talking strategy or whatever shit the in charge lot do to tell us grunts on the field where to go. Now get out of here before you cause more trouble.”

“Trouble? Our Meryell?” repeated Astrid mockingly as Meryell stood up.

“Lass, if I were twenty years younger I'd _beat_ that smart mouth right off yer ass,” growled Harvard.

“Oh please,” Meryell commented over her shoulder as she started to walk away, “you could beat her right now with your eyes closed, Vard.”

“Don't tempt me to beat _your_ ass, girlie!” Harvard called after her. “Your pa wouldn't give one lick if I did!”

Laughing, Meryell turned to walk backwards a few steps as she called back, “Of course he wouldn't! _He'd help you do it!_ ”

Hearing the two of them laughing knowingly behind her as she spun back around made Meryell smile. She needed to spend more time in the camp than she had been. Just talking to Harvard and Astrid for that short amount of time had soothed the ragged itch inside of her that had formed during that time without the company at her back.

Work came first though.

Sighing and thinking longingly of the day when she was no longer bound to the whim of the Inquisition, Meryell headed back the way she'd come and turned left as soon as she reached the exit of the Fangs’ camp. The line of the Inquisition soldiers tents began only a few steps from there and all she had to do to reach Cullen’s was walk up that line to the end situated right by the training field.

As per usual during the day, the man had one whole flap of his tent tied back despite the chill in the air. She knew _why_ he did it - it made their Commander seem more open in the eyes of those who served - but it was still ridiculous in the mere fact that it was probably only weeks away from starting to snow since they were at the base of the Frostbacks.

She could see Cullen and Arnald inside as she walked up, both men leaning over a map that was laid carefully out over the Commander's heavily encumbered desk. Ducking her head slightly to enter, Meryell sidled in along the wall and smiled when they both noticed her. “No, no,” she said sternly with a quick wave of her hand, “you two keep on with whatever you're doing. I'll wait until you two get done.”

Cullen chuckled before asking, “Which one of us are you waiting for?”

“Need to ask the Captain a question,” replied Meryell with a smile. She then tipped her head across the tent and added, “I am going to claim your cot for my own purposes though. Just until you two are done.”

“Of course, dear thief.” Cullen smiled and inclined his head slightly, saying, “Thank you for at least informing me of your temporary theft.”

“I'm nice like that to people I like.”

Arnald snorted, shaking his head as he commented, “Not if you are playing a joke upon some poor fool.”

Meryell just shrugged, having no reply to that because it was true, and promptly made her way over to Cullen’s cot. Other than the difference between cot and actual bed, it was made up much like her own with thick blankets to protect against the chilly air that seemed a permanent feature of Haven. There was also a heavy pelt draped over the end of the bed, a darkly furred and shapeless thing that had the same red streaks in it as the fur of his coat.

Settling on top of the blankets with her bare and dirty feet hanging off the edge of the cot, Meryell laid down on her side. Propping her head up on one hand, she watched the two men as they discussed something about troop movements and supply lines in low voices that weren't meant to be carried far for fear of being overheard. It probably didn't matter so much given their current circumstances but it was a good habit to keep. Falling out of that particular habit could end up meaning the difference between life and death for someone that served under them if the wrong ears heard it.

Laying there listening to them plan reminded her of her earliest days in the company back when she'd still been running mostly on rage and bravado. She'd sneak into the rafters of whatever room in headquarters the meeting was happening in, sprawling out across two or three and just listening to the inner workings. It had started as keeping herself informed of what was going on because she hadn't been used to being partially in the dark. The gang in South Reach hadn't really had a clear cut structure, so they'd all pretty much just kept each other informed of what they were all doing and that had left her scrambling when she'd been told there was shit she wasn't allowed to know as a new recruit. Then, as her relationship with Folke had grown, she'd started sneaking in simply because he was included in most of them and she'd been a greedy little shit when it came to his attention.

She'd fallen asleep in those rafters so many times and had been fucking lucky she'd never fallen out of them and broken anything. Arnald had been angry with her for a while about it, sentencing her to embarrassing punishments like dumping chamber pots for a day or mucking out the stables. They'd kept up that pattern for months until he finally realized it was a lost cause and stopped bothering. That and she wasn't the sort to blather secrets about everywhere, which was probably his biggest incentive.

“You eavesdropping again, girl?” came Arnald’s voice then, breaking her out of her reverie. Meryell grinned up at him in response as he stood looking down at her and shrugged before sitting up.

"Once a habit, always a habit," she replied with a smile. The she noticed that Cullen had disappeared and asked, "Did he give us the tent?”

Nodding, the Captain replied, "Said he needed to get back out on the field anyway. Man could give Harvard a run for his coin in hard work.”

Meryell just smiled in response to that because to do otherwise might be revealing too much of the blond man. She'd seen enough of the world in her years to know the difference between _working hard_ and _burying oneself in work._ Cullen certainly had the passion of the first in regards to his job but he also used it as a sort of self-punishment for the sins of his past. After hearing that _he'd_ been that poor fucking templar from Gil's story of the Tower and him personally giving her the entire recap of his years in Kirkwall, she could see _why_ he pushed himself.

Didn't mean she liked it any but she understood it. And she knew the Captain did too because he usually always saw more than he let on, he was just pulling spymaster shit on her.

"Anyway, you had something you needed me for?”

"Got a question," she replied. "Inquisition related. Sort of."

Arnald grinned at her as he asked, "Do I need to get down on my knees then, Your Worship?”

"Fuck you, Captain.” Rolling her eyes, Meryell added, "You can't fucking grovel at my feet anyway. You're Orlesian and thus born with a stick up your ass.”

That made him laugh and he shook his head before sitting down heavily next to her on the cot, clapping her warmly on the shoulder. “I always forget how I miss your mouth when you're gone, girl,” he said warmly. “Now, what's the question?”

Smiling at the comment, she replied, “I met a member of another company this morning. Apparently their captain wants to join the Inquisition, so they've invited us to come see them in action. Name sounds fucking familiar but I can't place exactly where I heard it. Don't know shit about them either other than what I got out of their man.”

Arnald arched an eyebrow expectantly and she snorted before supplying, “Bull’s Chargers is the name of the company. The man of theirs that came said their boss is a Qunari and that they mostly operate in Orlais and Nevarra.”

Abruptly Arnald’s eyes widened behind his mask and his mouth opened in an ‘o’ of realization. “ _That_ company,” he murmured softly after a moment. “I've heard of them, though never in much detail. The Iron Bull - apparently it is said _with_ the article - is said to be a good captain but doesn't hold to the title like most. Just calls himself the leader of his Chargers.”

“What about his men?” asked Meryell. “Would it be worth bringing them in?”

“That you'd have to see with your own eyes, girl. You know that.”

“Well I was hoping you'd help me _skip_ that fucking step.”

“Now now,” mock scolded Arnald, waggling a finger at her. “You know me better than that.”

She promptly blew a raspberry at him and he laughed back at her.

“They're a small bunch from what I hear,” he then said, getting back onto topic. “Forty or fifty strong at the most. Still impressive for a group that hasn't been active that long. Fangs are lucky that we have as high as numbers as we do since most companies don't last as long as we have.”

“Well,” drawled Meryell as she winked at him, “we have had a pretty bitching captain for the last decade or so. He's done the company right, so I hear.”

“That so?”

“Mmhmm, everyone says so.”

“Everyone now?” repeated Arnald with a wry smile. He then chuckled before clapping her on the shoulder again as he stood up and said, “I'm going to send some of ours with you when you head out to meet the Chargers.”

Frowning up at him, Meryell asked, “You thinking I'm going to see trouble in the Storm Coast, Captain?”

Shrugging slightly, he replied with a grin, “One never knows what one may face. Plus a show of force is always good when meeting up with another company.” His grin grew wider, shifting a step sideways into menacing, as Arnald added, “And it marks you firmly as one of ours. I'd hate for The Bull to get the idea that he can poach you.”

“I don't think he's going to try and poach the Herald of Andraste,” she noted, sneering the title venomously.

“He's Qunari. Even the ones who don't follow the Qun anymore don't worship Andraste. Not to mention he's a captain even if he doesn't claim the exact title. We're always on the lookout for new blood.”

Shrugging slightly Meryell said, “Fine, I'll take a lot with me. Can I have Folke?”

Arnald sighed, acting like he was thinking about it for a moment before saying, “Just don't get into trouble.”

“Us? Trouble?”

“You, he, and trouble go hand-in-hand, girl. Have since the day he brought you back from Ferelden.”

Meryell grinned as she stood up from the cot. “You wouldn't have us any other way, Arnald,” she commented warmly.

“Perhaps with a _little_ less trouble,” he replied with a smile as he turned to head for the tent’s open door. “I'm getting too old for some of that shit you know.” As she snorted in response to that, he laughed and ducked out the door.

She stood in Cullen's tent for another moment, just listening to the familiar sounds of the training ground. Then she squared her shoulders and strode out of the tent, smiling at Cullen as she passed him while pondering how exactly she was going to convince Josephine and the others to possibly hire _another_ mercenary company.

* * *

“It always this damp?” asked Sera as they strode away from the first campsite that Harding and her forward team of scouts and soldiers had set up. “I think there's mold in my breeches.”

“It's the sea,” Meryell explained without looking over her shoulder at the other elf. “Makes damp air all over the fucking place. There are a lot of places like this to the south of the Vimmarks.” Pointing towards the mountains in the distance, she added, "It'll be less icky once we get over that way. We're fucked right now since we're right by the water.”

"So you're saying I just got to put up with it?”

"Pretty much.”

"Grand,'’grumbled Sera and now Meryell did turn her head but only to smile at Folke who was walking next to her at the head of their group. He chuckled in response to her look, shaking his head slightly. Knowing him he was probably thinking the same thing she was: that Sera sounded exactly like she and every non-seaside-living Marcher that had ever joined the company in their first days at headquarters. Headquarters itself was between the base of the Vimmarks and the sea in an old Tevinter keep so it was always damp at best from the water or miserably hot at the worst heights of Marches weather. You either adapted or suffered through silently as complaining made you the target of every prank or tedious outside work someone higher up the chain of command could throw at you.

"So these Chargers are supposed to be where along the coast exactly?" asked Folke, changing the conversation to what they had come to the Storm Coast for in the first place.

"Not far from camp was my understanding," replied Meryell. "According to their man, they heard something about Tevinter mercenaries operating out here. Hence the invite to see them in action.” She then cocked her head to the side, saying, “Have you heard of their company, _baba_? Arnald had but Harvard and Astrid hadn't.”

Snorting, Folke replied, “I have. Though that's mostly because I have to pay attention to more than magic; ask Gil or Dem or any of the rest and they'd be clueless. Too much reliance on finger waggling.” He wiggled his fingers at her as if in example and when she grinned, continued,”Old Harvard's good for companies who've existed as long as ours but new one's...well, you learn about those in the field, not training the whelps. And you know as well as I do that Astrid is more interested in cracking skulls with that axe of hers than anything else. Not your best folk to ask for information, _asha’lan_.”

“And what have you heard of them, Ser Folke?” asked Cassandra from behind them. Meryell turned back towards the Seeker with an arched eyebrow at the addition of the title and found the woman’s gaze pointed downward as she tightened the leather straps securing her shield to her arm. She heard Varric chuckle from his spot further back along their group where he was walking with Sera and the trio of company archers that Arnald had assigned to them.

“ _Ser?_ ” exclaimed Folke with a laugh. “Andraste’s dimpled ass, Seeker, I'm not worthy of a title.”

“You are the Herald’s father.”

Meryell grinned at Folke as he rolled his eyes, saying, “That shouldn't afford me any different treatment than anyone else. I'm a mercenary, Seeker. Not to mention I'm a mage.”

Cassandra sighed before saying, “I meant it as a term of respect.”

“Now respect I like but I think we can do that without calling me ‘ser’.”

There was a long pause then Cassandra asked, “Then what do you wish to be called?”

“I think my name works well enough,” replied Folke. He then jerked his head around, eyes narrowed, and abruptly extended an arm to stop Meryell’s forward movement. “Someone laid a glyph here.”

“Whot?” asked Sera from somewhere behind Cassandra. “You got some kinda magicky sense or somewhat?”

Smirking, Folke replied, “Something like that, girlie.” He extended a hand then, his eyes fluttering closed, and Meryell shifted her weight back to one leg as she watched him. Folke might have been weak in power but in _ability_ and _finesse_ he was one of the best mages the company had. She'd always loved watching him work, even from their first meeting back in South Reach. He made magic look like _art_. “Only an alarm. Probably laid them out all over this fucking hill if the location the Chargers gave you is their base camp. Easy to disable thing.”

Meryell started to nod then jerked her own head around, ears twitching as she caught the bare edge of the sound of steel against steel. A dying man's scream followed and _that_ was perfectly audible to all of them.

“I don't think that'll be necessary, Scar,” commented Varric mildly. Folke just grunted in reply before he twisted his hand into a claw in mid-air and tugged backwards, his fingers glowing briefly before it dissipated.

Turning his head, he pointed out, “Best not to let them know we're coming anyway. Let's go, girl.”

Meryell grinned and drew her daggers, reveling in the fact that it was now the same motion she'd grown familiar with over many long years. Her weapon harness, which situated one blade diagonally across her back via straps that circled her chest and the second horizontally at the small of her back, was probably in need of repairs but it had done its job so far. Eventually she'd get Harritt to make a new one or see if Conlin had another set in the stores.

“Cassandra,” she called out, loud enough for everyone to hear her but not so loud as to alert those nearby, “you take point. Bernard, Karan, you go with her. Make us a fucking shield wall and plow these bastards over if need be. Sera, Varric, Pod, Tanya, Lortho, stay up the hill at range.” Turning to grin at Folke, she asked, “You with me and Hart, old man? I'll protect Cassandra's back and you two handle Bernard and Karan?”

“With your troublesome ass like always, Poppet,” he replied with a smile that was all bared teeth. Then he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the two other company mages, saying, “Roddy and Bel can cover all our asses with barriers to make sure we don't bleed all over the place.”

“I'll remember to let yours slip for half a second, Folke,” joked Roddy as he cracked his knuckles.

“Oh, darling, don't tease.”

Shaking her head at their familiar antics, Meryell idly spun her daggers in her hands before hissing, “Let's move. We've got Tevinter assholes to kill.”

“I'm glad you clarified that with _assholes,_ Yeller,” commented Lortho as he unslung his bow from across his back. As Meryell turned her head to look at him (mostly to glare because she hated when anyone used that particular nickname), the Tevinter archer grinned at her. “I'd hate to think you were talking about me.”

“You were born in Nevarra, Lor,” muttered Pod as the elf bumped his shoulder into the taller human’s.

“Still counts!”

“Are they _always_ like this?” asked Cassandra in a low voice as she brushed past Meryell’s shoulder to get ahead of them, bringing her shield up to bear as she drew her sword.

Chuckling, she grinned at the Seeker before replying, “Nope. Sometimes they're worse.”

“May the Maker preserve us.”

They broke free of the trees then and directly down a casually sloping hill that lead right down to the beach was a fully pitched battle. Judging by the looks of it, the Chargers were handling it alright but it seemed like the battle could shift all too easy. Ahead of her the three warriors had some sort of unspoken communication and set off, Cassandra at the head of of a three person arrow. The green light of barriers flickered over them and, as Meryell felt the warm touch of the magic across her skin, she bounded after them with Folke on her right and Hart, a slim little bare-faced Dalish elf, to his.

She grinned as Cassandra plowed into the back of a Tevinter mercenary, sending the poor fool staggering forward right onto the blade of one of the Chargers. Following close behind the warrior, Meryell mostly kept her blades clean except for the two foes that Cassandra swept off their feet before casually continuing on like the battlefield storm she was. She took out the downed men quick and clean and kept pace with the Seeker as she lead them across the field through the hail of arrows coming from the rest of their group up the hill.

It didn't take too long for the sound of steel and the smell of magic to start fading away as the battle winded down. Then a deep voice _boomed_ across the field, almost as loud as Cullen's training field voice that carried over the sound of clashing steel and could be heard all the way up to the Chantry. “Chargers! Stand down!”

She took a step back right then as she pulled her daggers out of the chest of a rogue who'd tried to sneak up on them and collided with heavy steel as she did a quick glance around the battlefield. Cassandra let out a grunt in response but didn't move as she asked, “Are you well, Herald?”

“Just making sure your backside’s protected, Seeker,” replied Meryell with a grin. She then straightened away from the other woman before bending to wipe the ichor on her blades off on the elaborate bit of cloth the Tevinter rogue had wrapped around his leathers. As she sheathed her blades, she turned to look for the source of that voice.

Obviously it had been the Chargers’ captain and he was quite obvious as he towered _shirtless_ except for a piece of leather shoulder armor over everyone else on the field.

"Folke!" Meryell called out as she eyed the Qunari. As she waited for him to walk over she reached out to touch Cassandra's shoulder. "Stand by me?" she asked.

The older woman blinked at her before saying, "Of course. I trust your judgement in this, however, if that is why you…”

"No, no," exclaimed Meryell, waving her hands in front of her. "You're purely Inquisition and Folke's company. Since I'm between the two, I'd rather have you both next to me. That and it cements me where I'm at so the Iron Bull doesn't think about trying to poach me like Arnald kept insisting might happen.”

"You believe he would?"

"Not really but I learned long ago to never doubt the Captain. More than half the time he's fucking right.”

Cassandra just nodded after that and fell into step at Meryell's left - where her shield would be most effective if she needed it on the off-chance to provide cover - as Folke stepped up to her right. With them behind her, Meryell strode forward to meet the Iron Bull as he finished ordering the man who'd come to Haven with the work offer to let the throatcutters finish up before breaking open casks.

“So,” said the big Qunari as he sat down rather lightly for a being of his size on one of the large rocks that sat on the beach, “you must be the Inquisition.”

“Damn. Did the great big old badge give it away?” commented Meryell with a grin, referring to the iron and serpentstone pin that was worn by most of the lower members of the Inquisition. She'd ‘confiscated’ one early on from the supplies for Cullen's soldiers and attached it to the harness she'd pulled off a dead body on that initial run to the Breach. Josephine had wanted her to have something more obviously marking her as the Herald but she’d shot that swiftly down, saying that she wasn’t going to take any special treatment just because of some shit on her hand.

She was a _fucking merc_ and she’d wear the same damned thing the Inquisition soldiers wore to identify themselves. It gave her the occasional opportunity to just blend into the background too and just be another face in the crowd, which was an aspect that she liked.

The Iron Bull responded to her sarcasm with a broad smile and a deep chuckle before saying, “I think I might like you, Herald of Andraste.”

Grimacing, Meryell hurriedly said, “Please fucking _don’t_.”

“Whatever you say. Come on, then, have a seat. Drinks are coming.”

“Drinks, you say?” commented Folke brightly and she dug her elbow into his ribs as she moved to sit down on the crate that the Iron Bull gestured towards. He grunted in response and flicked his fingers at the tip of her right ear - his oldest gesture for showing when he was annoyed at her - before he claimed the barrel that was also nearby.

“I will stand,” commented Cassandra as she came to settle behind where they sat, her feet braced in the wide, steady stance that Meryell had seen the woman drop into many times when she was bracing for a charge. She caught the Seeker’s eye and when the woman’s mouth twitched just so, she smiled before turning her attention back to the Qunari right as the man who’d brought the offer strode back up so the Iron Bull could introduce him as his lieutenant.

“Good to see you again,” he commented with a nod towards her. He then straightened up and said, “Throatcutters are done, Chief.”

The big Qunari leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, before saying, “Have ‘em check again. I don’t want any of those Tevinter bastard getting away.” Then he smiled, adding, “No offense, Krem. Or to your Tevinter.”

Snorting, Meryell replied, “He’s never even _seen_ Tevinter. We never pay his complaints any mind anyway.”

Her comment made the man Krem snort a laugh before he said, “None taken, Chief. Least a bastard knows who his mother was. Puts him one up on you Qunari, right?” The last was said as he turned to walk away and she heard Folke chuckle from behind her. Already Meryell could tell that the majority of the Chargers would probably get along with the Fangs just fine.

Another Charger abruptly appeared with three mugs in one hand and a larger in his other. He grinned at them, flashing mostly missing teeth, before he handed the largest mug to the Iron Bull with a comment of, “For you, Chief.” Then he turned and offered the other three to them, which Meryell took with a smile as she blatantly ignored Folke immediately tossing his back in almost one gulp. As Cassandra refused and the Charger walked off with the shrug, drinking from the mug himself, she leaned forward towards the Qunari.

“So,” she began, “that was a nicely done attack. Looked like it could have backfired on you from where we were standing though.”

“Could have,” replied the Iron Bull with a smile, “could not have. What matters is that it didn’t.” He shifted then, resting his weight on one elbow so he could gesture towards Cassandra with his other arm. “You have an impressive team yourself. Though a bit larger than what I was suspecting.”

“Oh?” asked Meryell, smiling as she took a sip of what smelled like ale.

“Yeah. Knew you employed another company but I didn’t think you’d be travelling with them.”

Folke let out a bark of laughter as he leaned forward, saying brightly, “ _Is tel eolas!_ ”

“ _Telahna, baba_ ,” she replied, reaching back to swat him across the knee. He continued laughing as she said with a smile, “The Inquisition doesn’t just _employ_ another company. They employ _my_ company.”

Both of the Iron Bull’s eyebrows went up, the left one making his eyepatch move with it, and then from beyond them Krem’s voice rang out, “Told you, Chief!” Snorting at the man’s shout, the Qunari leaned both elbows back onto his knees as he shook his head.

“Krem told me straight up he thought you were a merc. My own sources told me a lot but they didn’t reveal that part. Good on your spymaster for keeping that under wraps,” he commented with a sharp nod. Then he moved his hand enough to gesture towards her, continuing, “You really know what we’re worth then. I assume you’ve already talked with your ambassador - what’s her name - Josephine?”

Smiling, Meryell nodded and took another sip from her mug. “Just waiting on me to get back to our camp so I can send a bird back to Haven with the confirmation.”

The Iron Bull nodded before saying, “Let me sweeten the pot for you. You aren’t just getting the boys...you’re getting _me_.”

“You?” repeated Folke, surprised.

“You need a frontline bodyguard. I’m your man,” explained the Qunari. He then paused to look at Cassandra, who was standing with an almost bored look on her face, and commented, “Not that your current one isn’t impressive. But, whatever it is - demons, dragons? The bigger the better for me.”

Meryell could certainly agree that having the big Qunari around would be extra helpful for her. Especially since she could probably easily hide behind him without being seen, which wasn’t quite a feat she could pull off with Cassandra.

“And,” continued the Iron Bull as he sat down his mug and stood up abruptly, “there’s one other thing. Might be useful. Might piss you off.”

“Let’s have it,” she said sharply.

“Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?”

Frowning because that sounded _awfully_ familiar but she wasn’t anywhere near an expert on things related to the Qunari, Meryell turned to look at Folke. When he shrugged in return, she flicked her eyes towards Cassandra before returning them to the Iron Bull as the other woman shook her head slightly. “Sounds fucking familiar,” she replied, leaning back so she wouldn’t hurt her neck looking up at him, “but can’t say that I recall anything about them except they’re a Qunari organization.”

“Qunari spies,” explained the Iron Bull. “That’s them. Or, well, _us_.”

“ _Us?_ ” repeated Cassandra, a note of incredulousness in her voice. Meryell held up a hand towards the woman, silently hoping that their still somewhat tentative trust held, and motioned for the Qunari to continue. He nodded gratefully and quickly explained about the Ben-Hassrath being concerned about the uncontrolled nature of the Breach (she ignored Folke’s muttered comment of _Them and everyone else on Thedas_ ) before continuing to his being ordered to join the Inquisition. As soon as he made mention of _getting_ reports and sharing them, she frowned but let him finish.

“Alright,” began Meryell slowly, “three questions.”

“Only three?” asked Folke and she reached back to swat him on the knee again.

Turning her attention back fully to the Iron Bull, Meryell began to tick off on her fingers as she spoke. “One, what do you send in these reports back? Two, what’s in the reports you get that’s worth us taking you on? And, three, what the _fuck_ are you doing telling us that you’re a damned _spy_ straight off?”

The big Qunari just laughed in response before replying, “You don’t _hide_ from something called the Inquisition. Best to be up front about it.”

Snorting, Meryell smirked at how long she’d kept secrets, at how she _still_ held secrets (to her knowledge, at least), and how infuriated that had made the spymaster. “You’d be surprised how long you can hold out,” she commented wryly.

He arched a single eyebrow in response before shaking his head.

“To answer the other two, there’d be enough to keep my superiors happy. Nothing that’ll compromise your operation. Or, now that I know they’re yours, your company. The Qunari mostly want to know if they need to launch an invasion to stop the whole damn world from falling apart.”

Folke snorted, interrupting with a muttered, “If this shit keeps flowing downhill, we might welcome a fucking lot of Qunari on our side.”

“Let me send word of what you’re doing,” continued the Iron Bull, “and it’ll put some minds at ease. Good for everyone. As for what I get _in_ reports, there’s enemy movements, suspicious activity, intriguing gossip. Mostly a bit of everything.” He gestured with one hand slightly before he went on. “Alone, they’re not much but if your spymaster is worth a damn, she’ll put ‘em to good use.”

Not surprised at all that he knew the Inquisition spymaster’s gender, Meryell said, “Oh, she’s worth a damn. Not really sure _which_ sort of a damn but whatever. I’d like to point her in another direction than the one she’s got sighted up my asshole right now so your reports might just be my ticket to that. So...”

Trailing off, she leaned forward to sit her mug on the ground before standing up, extending her right hand out towards the big Qunari. As he took it, carefully winding much larger fingers and palm around hers to finish the clasp, she commented with a grin, “The Bull’s Chargers are in.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed the Iron Bull. He then turned and shouted down the beach, “Krem! Tell the men to finish drinking on the road. The Chargers just got hired!”

“What about the casks, Chief?” came back the answering shout as the Tevinter stood up on a rock. “We just opened them. _With axes._ ”

The Qunari shook his head before replying, “Find some way to seal them. You’re Tevinter, right? Use blood magic.” The casual use of one of the more (according to Gil and Demut, anyway) forbidden uses of magic made Meryell arch her eyebrows then she focused back on the Iron Bull as he turned back towards her.

“We’ll meet you back at Haven,” he commented before turning to wave an arm sharply towards his men. “Chargers! Let’s move!”

She folded her arms, just watching them for a moment, before she turned to look at Folke and Cassandra. “Well?” she asked.

“It’ll be fucking interesting to say the least,” he commented before draining the mug in his hand. Meryell narrowed her eyes at him because she was pretty sure that was _her_ mug since he’d finished his early but let it lie. “I think the Captain is going to have his work cut out for him with that one.”

“As will Leliana,” noted Cassandra dryly.

Snorting, Meryell said, “Fuck, Folke, Arnald’s going to have a damned _ball_ with this shit. He loves spies. And anything that makes that _el'u'verelan’s_ life harder is something I’m fond of it it’ll keep her off of me.”

“That _el’u’verelan_ ,” commented Folke as he stood and draped an arm across her shoulders, “is supposed to be working for you.”

“Leliana and the Herald,” began Cassandra as they started to move towards where the rest of their group had settled, apparently having been supplied with mugs of ale themselves, “do not get along.”

Meryell frowned before saying, “Cassandra, you and I need to have a talk about the definition of things because we do _more_ than not get along. Sometimes I’m half certain she’d knife me in my sleep if it wouldn’t hurt the chances of closing the Breach.”

Shaking her head, the Seeker smiled. “Nonsense,” she said lightly. “For you, she would at least have the courtesy to kill you where you can see her.”

Blinking several times and stuttering in her tracks, she gaped at the back of the older woman’s head for a moment. Only Folke’s arm across her shoulders kept her really moving forward until she regained her momentum.

“You _do_ have a sense of humor, Seeker!” exclaimed Meryell.

“Sense of humor!” repeated Varric, having caught wind of their conversation now that they were close. “The _Seeker?_ You sure about that, Swears?”

Laughing as Cassandra let out her now all-too familiar noise of disgust, Meryell reached out to grab Varric’s shoulder and bring him up against her free side. “Of course,” she commented as she rested her arm lightly across his shoulders. “You trust me, right?”

“Of course. You going to tell us about what happened?”

“On the way back to camp,” she answered with a smile. “We’ve got a bird to send back to Haven that there’s another company in the Inquisition’s employ.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvhen/Elven Translations:**
> 
> Is tel eolas - He does not know!  
> Telahna - Hush  
> el'u'verelan - secret taker


	11. “Take a load off, Seeker. I get the distinct feeling that whatever conversation you want to have is going to be a long one.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell has a rather revealing conversation with Cassandra that revolves around her relationship with Cullen as well as their personal relationship.

“Herald, may I speak with you?”

“Well,” Meryell drawled in response, not looking up from carefully re-wrapping the hilt of one of her daggers, “technically we're already talking but I suppose we can continue.” As soon as Cassandra let out an annoyed huff of breath in response, she sighed and lifted her eyes enough that she could glance briefly at the other woman's face. “Seeker, you are seriously going to have to get used to sarcasm if you're going to keep hanging around with me and Varric.”

Cassandra scoffed, saying, “We do not _hang out_ , as you say. And perhaps you and he would do better to be more serious.”

“Being serious just makes you fucking boring.” Meryell tugged the leather around the hilt tight and held it with her thumb while she stretched out her legs. This freed up her other hand to move the pile of various sized bits of leather she'd been working with off of the step in front of her cabin door where she'd sat to work. “Take a load off, Seeker. I get the distinct feeling that whatever conversation you want to have is going to be a long one.”

For a moment she didn't think the other woman was going to take the offer but she finally sighed and sat. When she didn't immediately speak, Meryell turned her attention back to her dagger, giving the woman a moment she obviously needed.

“There are,” Cassandra finally began, “some rumors going around Haven. Normally I do not listen to such things but it is...a _popular_ topic.”

Snorting, Meryell noted, “The Seekers can't be all that different from any other military type organization. You should know as well as I fucking do that soldiers like to gossip. So whatever you're worried about I wouldn't sweat it.”

“Even if it is you and the Commander?”

Suddenly regretting where this conversation was possibly going, she growled, “ _Especially_ if it's me and Cullen."

"Then you are not together.”

 _Depends upon your definition of together_ , Meryell thought wryly. They certainly weren't together in the traditional sense but she had no intention of taking another man to bed. And Cullen had literally said he was _hers_. They just...each had things they had to work out before anything could be officially stated. Though they'd been taking daring chances lately with their friendship, touching much more intimately than they'd dared before but never venturing across the line that made it something more.

That probably hadn't helped the rumor mill.

“No,” she replied honestly. “We're not together.”

“And why not?”

“Because...wait,” Meryell blinked, pausing in her work to turn and look at the other woman. Cassandra wore her disappointment openly on her face and she almost couldn't believe that the hard-line trotting Seeker might just be a damned closet romantic. “You actually fucking _want_ us together?”

Sighing in response, Cassandra leaned forward so her elbows rested on her knees. “While we have not gotten along these months…”

“I'm going to call _that_ the understatement of 9:41.”

The other woman's lips twitched before she continued, “I have found that I respect you. You have a...tenacity...that I have seen in few people and you are always the first to help those in need.”

“I’ve _been_ the person in need for a lot of my life,” Meryell pointed out. “I know where most of them are coming from.”

“You did not have to yell at those clerics in Val Royeaux to help or to hunt down those templars in the Hinterlands who had killed that woman's husband. Nor any of the other things I have seen you do.”

Her jaw clenched as she said in return, “I just do the decent thing, Seeker. My _babae_ taught me that.”

Cassandra just nodded and said, “That decency is what Thedas _needs_.” She then smiled - a real, honest _smile_ \- as she added, “That it comes from a foul-mouthed Elven woman who had no reason to stay with us but did makes it even more astounding.”

Narrowing her eyes, Meryell pointed out, “You as good as blackmailed me, remember?”

“You said that once before.”

“You don't remember you and our shivdark spymaster telling me pretty much that without the dubious protection of the Inquisition I would have fuck knows who or what darkening my doorstep?”

Cassandra had the good grace to look ashamed at the reminder. Which was good because she damned well _should_ feel bad about it. Then she asked quietly, “Would you have stayed if we had not?”

Meryell's temper flared and she turned her attention back to her dagger, focusing again on carefully wrapping the leather around the hilt. “I guess we'll never know now,” she growled in reply.

“I did not mean…”

“Doesn't fucking matter anymore,” interrupted Meryell. “I'm here and I'm sure as shit not running. Not while folk are getting hurt.”

“It matters between us,” Cassandra noted softly. When she looked at the woman curiously, she just shrugged casually. “If we are to work together and do so well, it does matter.”

Sighing heavily, she came to a stop in her work again and leaned back on the step so her shoulders were resting against the closed door. Meryell pursed her lips for a moment, considering what to say to the woman next to her. A lot of her initial anger towards Cassandra had faded since she'd gotten into this piss pot of a mess. She liked her well enough and certainly respected her skill in a fight. That tiny bit of her that _hated_ being backed into a corner though still chomped at the bit and held on tight to that bridle of anger, trying desperately sometimes to fight for its head.

Like right now.

“I don't take kindly to threats or ultimatums,” she finally said as she closed her eyes. “Maybe it's the Dalish in me.”

“I was under the impression that you were not Dalish.”

Meryell tensed, silently cursing her own slip of the tongue. Then she just sighed before replying, “Rule one of working a job: lie your ass off if need be to get off safe. Plus my own personal rule of _don't tell strangers what's my own damned business_.”

Cassandra scoffed and asked, “Herald, how are we to trust you if you show no trust in return?”

Cracking open an eye, she answered, “You've gotta show some trust first. So far I haven't seen a lot of it directed towards me except from Cullen, Varric, and the soldiers.”

“You think I do not trust you?”

Meryell nodded and the older woman sighed before saying, “I do not trust easily, Herald. We perhaps have that in common. I will note, however, that I will not turn my back in a fight on those I think I cannot trust.”

Blinking at the other woman for a moment, Meryell thought of their recent fights, where Cassandra relied on her blades, Varric’s arrows, and Solas’ spells to keep her back protected. Then she thought back further to those first days in the Hinterlands (and before while fighting their way to the Breach that first time) that Cassandra had deliberately fought either _beside her_ or _facing her_. It was a fighter’s trust, a warrior’s trust, but it was _trust_ nonetheless.

“Well,” Meryell began slowly, “it’s not exactly what I was talking about but...I suppose it's a place we can start from.”

“Then we shall start now,” Cassandra said firmly. “ _I_ never meant you staying with the Inquisition to be blackmail, Herald. Leliana I cannot speak for but to back you into a corner was never my intention.”

Smirking, Meryell fiddled with the end of the strip of leather before asking, “Not even when you thought me guilty?”

“I wanted the truth. I have learned that it cannot be gained through means of force yet sometimes I forget that lesson.”

“Varric?” she queried.

“Varric,” agreed the other woman in a tightly clipped tone. Cassandra then said, “You are good for him.””

“ _Varric?_ ” asked Meryell even though she knew full well that wasn't what was meant. And Cassandra knew she knew too by the smile trying hard to play about the other woman's mouth. Sighing, she asked, “Going back to the original topic...why does it matter so much to you? Other than you being a closet romantic.”

“Keep _that_ to yourself,” snapped the woman. Cassandra then softened her voice as she asked, “What has Cullen told you of his past?”

“ _Why?_ ”

“It determines my answer.”

Sighing, Meryell replied, “He barely touched Kinloch. One of the mages who joined the company during my third year with them was at the Tower during its fall. I related the basics and he confirmed them. I didn't...I didn't ask him to go into greater detail. I've heard what demons will do to people if let loose. I don't need help imagining how they might have tortured him. As for Kirkwall, he told me everything.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened in surprise then she recovered herself, saying “Before the Mage - Templar War, Kinloch was one of the greater examples amongst both Seekers and templars for why we must be vigilant. That Cullen _survived_ it when so many others - many of whom had served the Order for far longer - did not speaks to his strength. And if he told you all of what happened in Kirkwall, you know how the city forged him into the man he is today.”

“Break,” corrected Meryell. “I know how that city and that fucking crazy _bitch_ he had to serve under tried to break him.”

“And failed.”

"There are many ways to break a person, Seeker," she replied. "Sometimes all you have to do is start the cracks." Turning her head to look at the other woman, she added, "I know about the lyrium too."

Cassandra looked surprised by the statement but she covered it decently well as she nodded before saying, "I believed he could do it in Kirkwall and I believe he can now. He has a chance to prove to himself - and others - that it _can_ be done." She paused as she looked away, off to the right where the halls of Haven stood between them and the field were Cullen had already been running the Inquisition soldiers through drills for hours. "Mages have always made their suffering known, but templars never have. They are bound to the Order, mind and soul, with someone always holding their lyrium leash. Cullen can perhaps change that for others of the Order."

"He's not the first to succeed," commented Meryell quietly, drawing the Seeker's gaze back to her. She jerked her chin towards Haven's wall but further towards the left of where Cassandra had been looking, where the Fangs had their camp set up. "There are four former templars in the Fangs right now and we've had at least thirty since I've been with them. We've had them come to us, stumbled across them on the road, and even had one in the full throes of withdrawal _sold_ to us by this blackguard of a merchant that the Captain very happily knifed in the back."

Pursing her lips, she continued, "I've seen them come to us still full to the brim with lyrium and lost to madness. Some recover, most don't. Those that do serve the company out of thanks, either until the effects of so many years on that shit catch up or they decide to leave after the five years of service that the Captain asks of them. If they keep sober after that or go back to the Chantry, I don't know. By and large, though, they're lower ranking members of the Order, not the sort that'd be much of an example. Not to mention a lot of them have been kicked out for one stupid damned reason or another."

Cassandra blinked at her before saying, "You and your company continue to surprise me, Herald."

Meryell just grinned at that.

"One day we're going to teach you that _mercenary_ doesn't necessarily mean _bad_ , Seeker."

"I think perhaps I may be beginning to look forward to that day."

"Good," she chirped brightly. Then Meryell sobered and lowered her voice to say, "I care for him, Seeker, more than I've done for a man in a long while. Even if nothing comes of what's between us, that won't change." If they were going to trust each other, she might as well start with something starkly honest.

Smiling, Cassandra inclined her head just slightly before saying, "I am glad to hear that, Herald. Now...I believe I interrupted your work." Standing up, she finished, "Thank you for taking the time to speak to me."

"It's what friends are supposed to do, yeah?" asked Meryell.

"Friends?" repeated the Seeker, sounding surprised by the word.

Shrugging, she answered, "Well, I figure if we're going to try and trust each other, we might as well try to be friends as well. I tend to trust my friends the most."

A slow smile spread across Cassandra's mouth, making the scar on that side of her face curl, and then the Seeker nodded slowly.

"I have few I would call such but...I believe I would be honored to call you 'friend', Herald."

"And maybe one day you'll actually call me by my name?" chided Meryell with an arched eyebrow.

"Perhaps," replied the Seeker in an unreadable tone before she turned away. The smile that had stayed on her face as she said that, however, gave Meryell hope that perhaps one day she'd be _done_ with this fucking Herald nonsense.

 _Friends_ with Cassandra Pentaghast...would wonders never cease?

Snorting to herself, she bent her head back to her work, intent on getting all of her various blades back to fit shape before they headed out again.


	12. “You are an evil woman.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen receives an invitation from Meryell to meet her in Haven's tavern and discovers that what his dear thief really wants is a relaxing night with friends over drinks and cards, which he completely goes along with.

“ _Come to the Singing Maiden when you get free tonight_ ,” read Cullen after tugging down the note that had been pinned to the open flap of his tent. “ _Be ready to relax. Oh, and leave your armor in your tent.”_

The handwriting was Meryell’s, he recognized it easily after seeing it so often on the reports she sent in from the field. However, the drawings underneath the text were obviously Sera’s work. Both were naked figures having _quite_ a good time and, judging by the fur over the shoulders and the ridiculously over-proportional cock on one as well as the large tits and exaggerated pointed ears on the other, they represented himself and Meryell. The doodles also did what he assumed was their expected job of making him think about her naked, which immediately caused an uncomfortable tightness in his pants as well as an embarrassed flush across his face because _Maker only knew_ how long it had been pinned there.

Sighing at the scribbles, he ducked into his tent and tossed the letter onto his desk to figure out later what to do with it. He then shrugged out of his coat after loosening the ties and unhooking the clasps that secured the heavy mantle to his armor, idly amused that he wasn't even thinking of denying her request. Back in Kirkwall he'd had to be practically dragged out of the Gallows on the rare occasion of his non-business visits to the Hanged Man in Lowtown. Though that hadn't lasted long as no one had cared to approach the aloof Knight-Captain (or _Meredith's Pet_ , one of the unsavory titles attached to him) after Samson had been ejected from the Order. He'd never gone back until Rylen had arrived in the city and dragged him out on the worst nights of rebuilding, though even then it had been more chore than anything else.

He actually _looked forward_ to spending time with Meryell in the tavern.

By the time he finished stripping off his armor and hanging it on the stand situated in the corner of his tent, the tightness in his groin had thankfully dissipated. Cullen shrugged back into his coat, wrapping it loosely back around himself before he closed the open flap of his tent and headed towards the Singing Maiden.

There was one soldier standing outside the tavern door as he approached, a permanent post that he had set up on the rare chance that anything happened inside. He hadn't spent much time at taverns himself but he'd seen plenty of men come back to the Gallows bloody because they were full of drink and could no longer curb their tempers. The woman - Laurence was her name - grinned at him before asking, “Y’come for the game tonight, Commander?” in her thick Starkhaven accent.

Cullen frowned, immediately taken aback, and asked, “The game?”

Laurence blinked in response before replying, “Aye, ser. Herald set up a game inside, taking over the whole tavern from what I can tell.”

“The _whole_ tavern, Laurence?”

That suddenly explained why there had been so many on the streets of Haven during his walk. It hadn't seemed all that odd on his way up, mostly on the fact that he wasn't often inside the town this early in the evening, but now he realized how odd it had been. This early his men and Leliana’s scouts would have mostly still been occupying the tavern and not milling through the streets. “I'm sure the men had something to say about that,” he commented mildly while wondering how in the Maker's name Meryell had convinced _soldiers_ to give up their drink for a night.

“Oh no, ser,” she replied. “All she had to do was say she wanted to have a game with some of the inner circle and her company and we were glad to let her have it.” Laurence then shrugged casually and grinned sheepishly at him. “She may have promised to pay for all our drinks one night as well.”

Now _that_ , Cullen thought, was probably the larger bit of motivation for his men. He couldn't discount them doing it just for Meryell though because she'd asked politely (for her, at least). They respected her because of the casual manner that she treated them with and the fact that she'd sit shoulder-to-shoulder with them to have a drink or meal. He knew it was a product of a decade with mercenaries that were more family than simple colleagues, most of his men assumed it was just the way she was.

Shaking his head, he warmly said, “Then if everyone is getting a night to themselves, there's no reason why you shouldn't as well. I doubt that there will be any kind of fight tonight.”

Laurence just raised her eyebrows, her eyes wide, and he knew why. He was normally firm with the duty schedule and anyone that wasn't at their post was immediately punished with one of the more embarrassing camp duties. Him changing his opinion on that for even the few hours left in her shift was a shock for the both of them.

“Unless you _want_ to hold your post,” began Cullen, immediately chuckling when Laurence shook her head frantically.

“No, ser!” exclaimed the woman. She brought one arm up across her chest in a salute before saying, “I'll come back before changeover with Edan so he doesn't have a heart attack.”

“Dismissed then, soldier.”

Laurence saluted again before she gave a sharp, “Ser!” and walked off. Cullen watched her go, smiling as caught a hint of the wide grin on her face, before he reached for the tavern door.

He was instantly greeted with a boisterous array of _noise_ as he stepped inside. Sliding his eyes around the tavern to assess what was different. Flissa was at her normal place behind the bar but the woman was relaxing back in a chair with a book, a smile on her face as she sipped something from a glass. That told him that her presence was merely to either see that no damage was done to her tavern or to control the supply of alcohol that was arrayed across the bar. Both was also an option.

A shout of “Curly, you _actually came!_ ” from Varric dragged Cullen back to the rest of the tavern’s occupants. Someone had dragged two of the tables together in a line and there were people crammed around almost every edge of it. Varric was sitting on the side facing him, expertly shuffling a stack of cards, as he went back to telling some story he'd been embroiled in telling before Cullen’s arrival. To his right was Arnald, his eyes still hidden behind his mask and on his left was Sera, looking more than a little drunk already. The old mercenary Harvard was seated to the Captain's left, followed by an empty chair that took up that end of the table.

The big Qunari that headed the other mercenary company Meryell had convinced them to bring under hire was taking up the other end of the table, though that was more out of sheer size than anything else. Next to him sat Rylen,who saluted him with a grin, and on his right was…

“Josephine?” queried Cullen, surprised to see the ambassador not only in the tavern but in _this_ particular company.

The Antivan woman turned in her seat and he abruptly saw that she too was shuffling a deck of cards, handling them with a skill equal to Varric's. “Hello, Commander,” she greeted.

“No titles!” boomed the Qunari, lifting a tankard that was at least three times the size of the others on the table in the air. “Those were the rules.”

“Rules?” repeated Cullen as he flicked his gaze to the last player at the table on Josephine’s right. Folke grinned up at him as he looped one arm over the back of his chair and nodded.

“No titles,” came an all too familiar voice from behind him then. “No rank, no file, no _bullshit_.”

The Qunari - whose name he now recalled was the Iron Bull (the article was _important_ according to what Meryell had related the night she returned) - laughed loudly before saying, “I promise I won't shit on the tavern table, Boss.”

“You'd be cleaning it up if you did,” came Flissa’s stern voice from behind the bar, the woman not even looking up from her book.

Cullen turned to face Meryell then and found her standing directly behind him, smiling. “I'm glad you came, Cullen,” she softly murmured as she reached out to take his gloved hands in hers. He abruptly cursed habit having him left them on then swallowed as she took it upon herself to slowly relieve him of them. “I think it's going to be an... _exciting_...night.”

Turning his head back towards the table, he noticed that the only two empty chairs were at the end of the table between Folke and Harvard. “Exciting, huh?” he asked softly, wondering what exactly she had planned besides the game.

“Mmhmm.”

As he looked back at her, Cullen's breath caught in his throat at the affection in her eyes and the seductive edge to her smile as she finished slowly pulling the glove off his left hand. Normally _this_ sort of attention to him was reserved for the dark confines of his tent or the solitude of her cabin. It hadn't yet gone anywhere besides teasing with the occasional daring touch but standing in the tavern with Folke _right behind him_ was entirely different from the norm. Working hard to control his breathing, to keep it steady and even, he growled under his breath, “You are an evil woman.” Because judging by the gleam in her eyes, she was doing this deliberately to him.

“Yes,” she confirmed as she freed his other hand, tucking his gloves into her belt before entwining her fingers with his. With a smile that could only be described as _shit eating_ , Meryell replied in a bare whisper, “And yet you seem to enjoy every second of it.”

“It's you,” he replied honestly.

“Lovebirds!” rang out Folke's voice, interrupting whatever an abruptly blushing Meryell was opening her mouth to say. “Are we going to play or what?”

“ _Baba_ ,” growled Meryell as she rolled her eyes and released Cullen's hands to step around him, striding towards her adoptive father. He turned to follow her as she grabbed the hedge mage gently by the hair and pulled his head back to where she could glare down at him. “You are _ruining_ a moment.”

“It’s my duty as your father, _ara_ _vherain_ ,” replied the man with a practically identical shit eating grin. Folke then turned his head, gray eyes meeting Cullen's own, saying, “Sorry, Commander.”

“Titles!” boomed the Iron Bull.

“My apologies. _Cullen._ Are we ready to _play_ now, _asha_ _’lan_?”

Meryell growled before releasing Folke's hair, lightly smacking the back of his head as she dropped into the seat next to him. “ _Yes_ ,” she grumbled in exasperation. Then she turned and smiled at him, patting the seat of the chair next to her. “This one's for you, _vhen_ _’an’ara_.”

Cullen caught Folke's raised eyebrows at the Elven word and wondered once again what exactly it meant. Usually Meryell didn't say it until he was drifting into sleep, the last thing his mind heard as they laid (fully clothed) at each other's sides on the occasion that they fell asleep together. Making a mental note to ask her later, he moved towards the chair, asking, “What exactly are we playing?” as he sank down into it. He then flicked his eyes at Meryell as she tucked her legs into his lap before curling one hand around the leather of her boot where it covered her left ankle.

“Diamondback, Curly!” replied Varric with a grin before he finished shuffling the cards in his hand and sat them in the middle of the table. As Josephine joined her stack to it, the dwarf continued, “Swears was wanting a game of Wicked Grace but when I learned that everyone here knew how to play Diamondback I insisted we do that instead. Although…” After his voice trailed off, Varric locked eyes with Cullen.

“I'm wondering where _you_ learned Diamondback, Curly.”

Arching an eyebrow, Cullen replied, “You don't remember?” As the dwarf looked immediately confused, he chuckled and shook his head. “Maker's breath, Varric, I learned it from _you_!”

“Me?” repeated Varric. “I didn't…”

“9:32,” pressed Cullen. “You got roped by a man into teaching the group he was with how to not lose their shirts.” _That_ particular learning experience had been prompted by Samson learning that neither he nor anyone else with them that night knew the rules to the game. Being too drunk too teach them himself, he'd bribed someone slightly more sober (ie: Varric) to do it instead.

“Maker's knob, Curly, you were _there_? Were they _all_ templars?”

Smiling at the dwarf’s panicked tone because he knew Varric was thinking of the fact that Treva Hawke had been in full form at her little table in the Hanged Man that night, Cullen chuckled. “Off duty,” he noted wryly. “Hawke was perfectly safe anyway,” he added as the dwarf still looked worried. “Even then I wouldn't have let her get arrested.”

Even the still far too bitter and broken man he'd been then had recognized that Hawke was better off outside the Circle than in. Not only for the town but for _her_. And he would not, no, _could not_ be responsible then for clipping that woman's hard earned wings.

“That's more reassuring than you know, Curly,” murmured Varric. He then recovered his good mood and, after rubbing his hands together, proclaimed loudly, “Let's get this game started. Everyone draw a card…”

* * *

“Ha! I win!”

“Tha's a Queen King!” argued a slurring Folke as he leaned heavily on to table. He lifted a finger to point it at Rylen as he said, “Does’n beat a King King.”

“Folke,” scolded Arnald, the man's cheeks flushed with drink but his voice still firm. “I think you have your hands confused.”

“Do _not._ ”

Cullen arched an eyebrow as the table descended into utter _childishness_ at that point as Folke and Rylen settled into an argument about which way the rankings of the winning card pairs went. Arnald shook his head at the argument and rose, saying, “I believe with that I am done for the night. Good night.”

“Nigh’, Captain,” murmured a sleepy voice from his lap and Cullen looked down to find Meryell awake, blinking slowly up at him. She'd slumped over onto him, fighting a losing battle against sleep, three hands ago and he'd turned in his cards at that point. It had only been himself, Varric, Folke, Arnald, and Rylen then anyway as Josephine and Harvard had begged off several hands ago, the Iron Bull was dozing in his chair, and Sera had long ago slid out of her seat to snore at them from the floor. That and he knew he wasn't in the same playing league as any of them anyway. So he'd merely settled back into his chair and carefully shifted her to where she was leaning against him.

After the first hand after that, she'd shifted to lay in her chair with her head in his lap and one arm curled around the back of his knees (a position that had very nearly given him a heart attack while at the same time forcing blood to areas it _really_ didn't need to) while her legs ended up in Folke's. The hedge mage hadn't even blinked at the shift and had just shifted his legs where her own wouldn't inadvertently slide off.

So Cullen had tried to relax his rapidly pounding heart and had ended up watching the last two hands with his fingers idly running through her short hair. As she looked up at him, he curled his fingers against her scalp to drag his nails lightly up the back of her skull. Meryell practically _purred_ at the contact, her back arching upward...and he was abruptly, _ridiculously_ hard.

The things this tiny whirlwind of a woman _did to_ _him_ …

She seemed to notice his...predicament...as well and her eyes came more alert, desire and mischief swirling in them. As he watched her, she carefully canted her head backwards further into his lap and it was _just enough_ to put pressure on the bulge in his pants. Thankfully it was _mostly_ hidden underneath the loose folds of his coat.

“Problems?” she asked softly.

Growling darkly, Cullen curled his fingers into her hair again, this time gripping the strands securely. She gasped - just a little breathy exhale - but _he_ was watching her face. That and they'd been doing this _teasing_ dance long enough that he knew the signs of her own arousal. Besides the wide dilation of her copper-flecked eyes, her cheeks flushed, her mouth dropped open, and her long tapered ears _twitched_ twice. Always _twice_.

He wanted to pick her up and carry her off to her cabin, to have those muscled legs that he admired wrapped around him as he buried himself in her. Wanted to feel her teeth against his skin and return the favor in kind, to leave plum colored marks across her sun-darkened flesh and satisfy that _urge_ to say without words that she was _his_. To know that _he_ was the one she wanted in her bed, in her life, and never doubt that fact again.

Cullen _wanted_ her more fiercely than he'd ever wanted anything in his thirty years. Not even wanting to become a templar compared to this.

Yet _now_...now was still not the time.

She had her issues - ones she still hadn't shared with him - and he had his.

So...for now...the _dance_ had to be enough. Sitting with her like this, touching her back-shoulders-legs with clothes between his hands and her skin, sleeping beside her, drinking with her laugh in his ear and her warmth underneath his arm...it had to be enough.

With a deep breath, Cullen _yanked_ his desire and emotions back under control. It was harder than it had been years ago in Kirkwall when he'd finally embarked on the rather dubious endeavour of bedding a woman. Though then he'd been fighting _fear_ and _rage_ at every step, working hard to not see the pretty, lonely widow who Rylen had convinced him to see (after learning he'd never taken a woman to bed, because _when_ had there been a good time for him to learn _that_ lesson) as that _monster_ from the Tower. Now he was fighting more than that, fighting _desire_ and _need_ , and it was _hard_.

But never let it be said that Cullen Rutherford didn't rise to a challenge.

“I think it's time for bed,” he murmured and watched her eyes soften as he loosened his grip on her hair. She smiled and nodded, understanding, _accepting_ , and he...Maker, he did not _deserve_ this woman.

And yet he, the broken man, the failed templar, _the_ _lyrium_ _addict_ , he had her.

Carefully he gathered her up in his arms, Folke not even noticing as her legs were removed from his lap as he was still arguing with Rylen, and stood. Varric, of course, noticed them and the dwarf winked at him before he turned his attention back to the arguing men, saying that _he_ was the dealer so _he_ made the rules. Cullen turned away as that statement started _another_ argument and walked out the front door of the tavern with Meryell in his arms.

There was a fresh guard at the door - Laurence’s replacement - and the boy _stared_ at him open mouthed as he exited. He couldn't blame him as it wasn't every day that one saw the Commander of the Inquisition's army out of armor _and_ flushed with drink, carrying around the obviously drunk and sleepy so-called Herald of Andraste. Still...the boy managed a salute.

“At ease,” Cullen said softly. He then turned back to look into the tavern and noticed that Flissa had abandoned her post behind the bar at some point, probably taken to her own bed. “Keep an eye on this lot and make sure they don't cause trouble.”

“Y-yes, ser!” stammered the boy, saluting again.

Now Cullen realized he didn't even recall the young man's name despite Laurence saying it earlier. He knew him - he knew _every_ man and woman that served under him thanks to how small their forces still were - but his alcohol and desire fuzzy brain wasn't helping him.

“Edan,” breathed Meryell, shifting enough in his arms that she could smile at the boy. “Thank you.”

The young man, Edan, blushed bright red and ducked his head, saying hurriedly in a stammer, “I-it's n-no trouble, H-Herald. Just d-doing my duty.”

Smiling, Cullen nodded to the boy and then strode off into the night, heading towards Meryell’s cabin. The woman who resided in it wiggled in his arms, trying to get somehow _closer_ to him, until she had her face pressed against his throat. By the time he reached her door, he was breathing hard and fighting against just slamming her up against it once they got inside.

Instead he calmly opened it, stepped in, and proceeded to deposit her on her bed before taking several steps back. Meryell sat up on her elbows and watched him, her eyes bright and a truly sultry smile playing about her lips. Her hair looked disheveled thanks to his attention to it earlier and he _wanted_ her so strongly he saw stars.

“You are an _evil_ woman,” Cullen reiterated as he locked both hands at the back of his neck, rocking back and forth as he tried to work off steam.

She just smiled at him and scooted over on the bed before crooking a finger at him. “Yes,” confirmed Meryell. “Now get over here and lay down.”

“Is that...wise?”

“Unless _you_ were planning on doing something else, fuck yes. I just want…” She trailed off and suddenly Cullen was looking at the woman who echoed that lonely little girl she'd once been, the girl who'd lost her whole world in one fell swoop and hadn't dreamed of finding another. “I just want _you_ , Cullen.”

Kissing her he could resist. He could resist the strong desire to take her to bed. He could resist his _thirst_ for her. His thirst for lyrium.

Cullen could not, _would not_ , resist that broken tone in her voice that screamed to him _don't leave me alone_. Because he knew that empty ache all too well.

Shrugging out of his coat, he tossed it over the back of a chair and hurriedly removed his boots. Then he slowly padded over to the bed and carefully removed hers, setting them down by the bed as she crawled under the covers but left them open for him.

Sliding in next to her was an exquisite sort of torture and his body reacted instinctively as she molded herself against him. Cullen wrapped his arms around her, wanting her closer, wanting her _everywhere,_ and buried his nose into the hair at the crown of her head. Meryell pressed a kiss against his throat, her breath heavy as she flattened both palms against his chest.

“I am here,” he murmured, and it was an _oath_ , a _promise_. “I'm not going anywhere.”

She relaxed against him and as her breath evened, Cullen wondered what had happened to this brilliant woman in her past before he followed her into sleep.


	13. "Pala adahl'en, masvian."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell finally gets around to heading to Redcliffe to see why Grand Enchanter Fiona showed up in Val Royeaux and takes Cassandra, Solas, and Sera with her on the trip. Of course, she instantly regrets this when Solas wants to _talk_.

"I would ask you a question, _da'len_."

Sighing, Meryell glanced out of the corner of her eye at Solas, who had abruptly brought his horse up alongside her own. Feeling one of her ears flick in annoyance, she replied, "Sure, Chuckles. I suppose I can be fucking charitable today. What's the question?"

"I have recently learned your last name is _Verlen_. I merely wonder why it is that you carry such a name."

"You _know_ what it means."

"I do," he replied and she ground her teeth together at the _pride_ he said that with. The very little conversation that she'd actually had with the other elf had revealed that he was _exactly_ what she'd first assumed: proud of his knowledge and all too willing to call the Dalish fools for their lack. She'd stopped talking to him as soon as he'd turned up his nose at her rather snide comment about how he should maybe teach them what they had gotten wrong instead of just standing around being a fucking prick about it.

Solas didn't call himself Dalish but he had every _inch_ of the pride that most of them did.

Meryell turned her head towards him and arched an eyebrow as she asked, "And you assume that I don't?"

"I assume nothing of the sort, _da'len_. Given that you seem to have a fair grasp of our tongue, I surmised that you knew its meaning." He smirked as he paused before finishing, "I merely asked why you carry such a name."

Narrowing her eyes at him, she growled, " _Pala_ _adahl'en_ , _masvian_."

Solas' ears twitched but his smirk only widened as he said, "You certainly have a grasp of the insults.

" _Dhava_ _'ma_ _masa_ _._ "

" _Enan_ _harthathe_ _prones_ _Rajelanes_ _viraju_."

Snarling, Meryell spat, " _Varathe_ _ish_ _tor or_ _min_ _!_ "

"They always like this? Talking in Elven and the like?" she heard Sera ask from behind them where she and Cassandra were riding. The Seeker merely grunted affirmatively, which caused the archer to blow a very loud raspberry in response.

Rolling her eyes skyward at the conversation of the others, Meryell growled, "Cullen's _job_ is leading the Inquisition's forces. Nothing more, nothing less. The next time you fucking imply that he has any other job, particularly implying that I'm somehow _above him_ when I'm sure as fucking _not_ , I _am_ going to stab you."

Solas arched an eyebrow at her for a long moment before saying, "Ah. I was to understand that you had come to an agreement with the Commander. _Ir_ _abelas_ _, da'len_."

" _Din_ ," she replied shortly. Glancing back towards their companions, Meryell sighed heavily before she said, "My _babae_ took the name _Verlen_ to replace his own. He was Dalish and then he wasn't because humans can be bastards to our kind. That satisfy your curiosity, Chuckles?"

"Indeed. Though I wonder at why you so strongly protested to being Dalish some time ago."

"Because I'm _not_ ." Shrugging, Meryell went on, "So I've got Dalish blood. _So fucking what_. Being Dalish doesn't make a damn lick of difference in the alienage, especially not when my father abandoned most of the ways because it makes them assholes. That what you want to hear, Chuckles? You're right, the Dalish are shit."

Flicking an ear, Solas said, "I do not recall saying the Dalish were _shit_."

She started to open her mouth to reply when Sera yelled from behind them, "Might as well have, Egg!" Snorting at the younger woman's nickname for the mage, Meryell shook her head while she tried not to laugh at the look of absolute _outrage_ on his face. She was _so happy_ suddenly to have brought Sera into the Inquisition if it meant more annoyance for the smug bastard.

"Not in so many words," she noted wryly, "but if you read between the lines..." As she trailed off, Meryell shrugged. "Come on, Chuckles, you talk about them like they don't know shit but won't help them to correct their mistakes."

He let out an offended sounding little huff of breath before asking, "And my refusal means I believe them to be such?"

"From where I'm standing? Yeah."

"I see."

Solas went silent after that and Meryell shifted in the saddle of her Forder, assuming that he'd be silent for the rest of their trip to Redcliffe to finally see why the Grand Enchanter had come all the way to Val Royeaux to see her. Her assumption was wrong.

" _Da'len_."

"Fuck's sake. What is is now, Chuckles?"

She turned her head at the immediate silence in response to find the other elf frowning at her, his brows furrowed seriously. Rolling her eyes, Meryell feigned politeness and asked, "What question can I answer now, _hahren_?"

"You mock me."

"I'm trying."

Solas sighed heavily then asked, "Why do you keep the name? If I may inquire?"

Meryell turned away from him, focusing on the road ahead as she answered stiffly, "Because my _babae_ chose it. That's the last I'm going to say on it."

"So you seek to honor his memory."

"Something like that."

"I see," Solas said airily. He then paused before adding, "You are...more...than I initially thought, _da'len_ _._ "

As she started to open her mouth to reply, Sera suddenly barged between them on her horse, practically cackling as she cried out, "Stop trying, Eggy! Glowy Bits is already spoken for by her Cully Wully!" From behind her, Meryell heard Cassandra let loose with a withering sigh as the archer rode away from them and laughed, shaking her head at the pair of them.

Solas sniffed delicately as he watched Sera's disappearing form and muttered, "Charming."

"Indeed," agreed Cassandra. "I think we should follow her so as to make sure she doesn't kill herself."

"You're probably right," conceded Meryell, shaking her head. Then she grinned over her shoulder at the Seeker, childishly calling out, "Race you to the Jenny!" before she put her heels to the side of her Forder. As the horse beneath her leapt forward into a hard lope, she heard vaguely heard the other woman say something to Solas before the two of them followed her.

Maybe _now_ with having to spend their time catching up to Sera, she wouldn't have to answer any more damned questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven/Elvhen Translations:**
> 
> Pala adahl'en >> Go fuck a forest  
> Dhava 'ma masa >> Kiss my ass  
> Enan harthathe prones Rajelanes viraju >> I understand that is the Commander's job (roughly)  
> Varathe ish tor or min >> Leave him out of this  
> Ir abelas >> I am sorry  
> Din >> No


	14. “We've all got shit we hide, Chuckles. You, me, Varric...name a name and they've got something they want to hide. Seems to me like that makes him a perfect fucking addition to this piss pot mess.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their return from Redcliffe to speak with the mages, Leliana sends Meryell word of the location of a Warden who has not disappeared like the rest of his Order. When they find him, she sees something in the man that no one else in their party seems to and that alone is what leads her to accept his offer of aid to the Inquisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the late chapter. Last Tuesday I discovered I have an abscessed tooth, was in serious pain up until Saturday, and spent the long weekend laying in bed watching Netflix to just appreciate the fact of not being in agony. Of course, now I'm back in agony from having a root canal to fix the problem tooth. Ugh.

“Herald!” exclaimed one of the Inquisition soldiers in the so-called Outskirts camp that overlooked the Crossroads as they rode in after leaving Redcliffe several hours before. “There's a message for you.”

Sighing because this probably meant they were going to be delayed on their way back to Haven instead of just long enough to water their horses, Meryell swung down from the saddle of her Forder. “From who?” she asked as she reached out to take the folded paper in the woman's hand.

“The Nightingale, ser.”

Fighting a grimace - purely on the fact that it was bad form for the lower ranks of the Inquisition to see their leaders at each other's throats - she took the letter and unfolded it to reveal the spymaster’s elegant hand. Skimming it quickly, Meryell sighed before she ducked into the largest of the camp’s tents. There was one soldier inside, a dark-haired young man who was freshly out of his armor judging by the still wet looking sweat stains on his tunic, and he twitched at the sight of her but didn't immediately jump up to salute her. Which was a good thing given that he probably would have spattered ink all over the map that he and the others at this post worked so hard to keep up to date.

“Herald,” he greeted, finishing whatever he was noting quickly and starting to rise. Meryell quickly waved him back down with a quick slash of her right hand.

“Stay fucking seated, soldier,” she scolded. “You look dead on your feet.”

He smiled gratefully as he sank back into his seat and asked, "How can I help you, Herald?"

Holding up the letter, Meryell smiled and replied, "Just need to figure out where this is pointing me. You lot heard any shit about a Warden here in the Hinterlands?"

"There was..." The young man held up a single finger and dug into the stack of papers to his right on the table, flipping through them hurriedly before he let out a pleased noise. "Ah! From Upper Lake two weeks ago. They sent us and the Nightingale a report of a man wearing Warden armor in the area around Lake Luthias."

Stepping up to the table, Meryell flicked her eyes across the map but she'd never been very good at reading upside down. It was one of those things that made jobs for the company difficult sometimes though there was nothing for it as trying made her eyes swim. Thankfully the soldier reached out to tap his finger on the sketch of a lake towards the bottom of the map.

"There," he said firmly, "Lake Luthias. It's where you cleared those Carta out of an old thiag weeks ago, Herald."

 _Now_ she knew where she was going.

Tucking the letter into one of her belt pouches, Meryell nodded and grinned at him, "You're a fucking life saver, soldier. What's your name?"

"Treno, Herald."

"You're under Commander Cullen?"

"Aye, ser."

Smiling, she said, "I'll put in a good word for you when I get back to Haven. Now get your ass into a bed before you fall out of that chair. Herald's orders."

He laughed and nodded, slowly standing up to salute her. "Aye, ser," he repeated, his voice warm. "Thank you, ser."

Flipping a hand errantly at him, Meryell turned to leave the tent, trusting that he'd see himself to bed since she'd ordered him there. The soldiers and scouts had a tendency to follow whatever she said to the letter, which had been more than a little off-putting at first. Nowadays she was finally starting to get a a little bit used to it and it certainly helped when she saw some of them pushing themselves too hard.

Striding over to where Cassandra was tugging the saddle off of her own horse, she said, "Got another fucking recruiting job before we go back."

The Seeker just arched an eyebrow as she turned and dropped the saddle along with its pad onto the ground. As she turned back to the horse, running her gloved hand down it's neck, she asked, "What is it this time?"

"Believe it or not, it's a Warden."

"A _Warden_?"

Nodding, Meryell replied, "Apparently our dear _el'u'verelan_ was wrong when she said all of the local ones had disappeared." She then noticed Solas nearby, his ears twitching, and pointed at him. "Not a fucking _word,_ Chuckles."

The bald elf just smiled and noted, "I was merely going to comment that your word choice was...apt...for the spymaster, _da'len_."

"Enough of that Elven shite," sneered Sera as she bounced past him and over to Meryell. "We got somethin' else to do?"

"Seems like," she replied shortly. All-in-all she understood Sera's opinion towards Elven culture - she shared some of them she'd learned, particularly that the Dalish _and_ Solas were stuck-up knobs - but sometimes her words _grated_. The language and what habit she kept had deep meaning to her and she had tried to explain that to her fellow rogue.

It had _mostly_ gotten across.

Meryell then continued, "According to reports, he's at the nearby lake. Lake Luthias."

"The one with the thiag overlooking it," commented Cassandra.

"That one."

Solas stepped forward, his eyebrows drawn down low, and asked, "And this Warden is there? Why have they not already approached him?"

"Because, Chuckles," replied Meryell with a roll of her eyes, "apparently that's _my_ job."

"Well," he drawled lazily, "you _are_ the Herald of Andraste."

Narrowing her eyes at him, she growled, "I will _stab_ you, _masvian._ " He just smiled in response - that smarmy, know-it-all expression that she _hated_ \- and Meryell shifted her attention immediately back to Cassandra. "It's still fucking early so we can rest a few hours then head that way, spend the night at Upper Lake before we go hunting for this Warden...fuck, what was his name?"

Tugging the letter back out, she unfolded it and skimmed for the name before reading it out loud.

"Warden Blackwall."

* * *

_Warden_ Blackwall was as _shifty_ a bastard as Meryell had ever met. He wasn't shifty in the way of a bad thief trying to find out where you hid your valuables or a psycho clinging to the edge of madness who made overt commentary.

He was shifty like some of the company was when admitting past crimes.

Like Folke had been that night long ago when she'd accidentally called him _baba_ for the first time and he'd told her her wasn't worth being anyone's father because of the blood on his hands.

Kicking at the boot of one of the men who'd attacked the Warden and his so-called recruits, Meryell snorted. They were common thieves judging by the ill-fit of their gear and that had been confirmed by Blackwall's statement about the unarmored men he'd been 'training' when they'd walked up taking back what was stolen. She then flicked her eyes up at the man and stated firmly, "So you've not got one fucking idea where the other Wardens are."

Unlike a lot of people, he didn't seem at _all_ taken back by her cursing. There wasn't even a _twitch_ from that impressive black beard he sported. So, he wasn't just some loner who was good with sword and board, as Harvard had always termed wielding a sword and shield. He was a _soldier_...or had been at one point.

"No," replied the man. "I haven't seen any other Wardens for months. Mostly I travel alone, recruiting."

Meryell flicked her eyes in the direction that his 'conscripts' had gone before arching an eyebrow. She wasn't an expert but she'd read enough about the heroes of the Blight and their Order to get a grasp of how things worked. Wardens didn't just temporarily conscript folk.

Once you were conscripted, _that was it_.

“And tossing poor sods into the piss?” asked Sera. “That part of _Wardening_?”

“I was in the area recruiting. Fought some demons and that's when I heard about the stealing.” Blackwall turned to look in the direction his ‘recruits’ had gone and the look on his face was that of a man who's done something terrible that he knows he can't ever correct. “They had to do what I told them to, so I told them to stand. Next time they won't need me.”

Sera snorted in response and Meryell could see her nose already curling up into a sneer. Holding out a warding hand to stave off whatever comment the younger elf might have, she pressed, “So where might the other Wardens have gone? Surely you've got one place they might have headed.”

Shrugging, he replied, “They might have retreated to our stronghold Weisshaupt up in the Anderfels. Other than that, I don't know where they might have disappeared off to. If they did...I usually stay outside of towns and the like. Probably why I haven't heard anything.”

Meryell glanced sideways at Cassandra, who was standing an arms-length away with her arms crossed. The older woman turned her head towards her, one eyebrow arched, before saying, “Then this...detour...has not been helpful at all.”

“That might be warring for your top spot as the understatement of 9:41,” commented Meryell wryly. She then turned her attention back to the man and said, “Thanks for what little you could give us, Warden Blackwall.”

As she turned away, ready to tell everyone to head back to the Upper Lake camp, Blackwall gruffly said, “Inquisition!”

Spinning back around on the heel of one foot, Meryell arched her eyebrows curiously at the man as he approached her with the _oddest_ expression on his face. “Warden?”

“Look, I imagine you've got your hands full with all of this...well, _shit_ , to put it properly… going on, what with the Divine’s murder and the hole in the sky. Thing like that...thinking the Wardens are gone is almost as bad as us being involved. So if you're trying to put things back _right_ , maybe you need a Warden. Maybe you need me.”

If she were someone else she might not have realized what that odd expression on his face was in that moment. Were she true Dalish or had never left the alienage or even if she were _human_ by some chance of fate, she might not have _seen_.

But she _was_ herself, thief and killer (if the need called for it), and Meryell _knew_ that look like it was a longtime lover. She'd seen it on her face, on Arnald’s, on Folke, on Cullen most recently, and more as Arnald had practically built the Fangs on people like that.

Folk who'd done wrong and couldn't wash the blood off their hands yet still, _still_ strove to do one thing right.

Who was she to deny a man that chance?

Extending her hand towards him, Meryell met Blackwall's eyes with her own. His were gray and _they_ , above all else, confirmed everything his face had screamed. Demut had told her long ago that the eyes were the keys to a person, whether you were having a conversation or facing them across the blade of a weapon.

As his hand enclosed her own - a heavy grip that reflected the use of the two-handed sword slung across his back - she smiled.

“Welcome to the Inquisition then, Warden Blackwall.” She then tipped her head towards to her left, adding, “We've got a camp just down the hill and a spare horse or two. If you've got nothing to settle, you're welcome to ride back to Haven with us.”

“I know the camp,” he said with a slight smile. “Got some things hidden that I need to get but I can meet you there in a few hours.”

“We'll see you then, Warden.”

With that Meryell strode off and the others fell into step behind her as they made their way back around the lake towards camp. Thankfully they all waited until they got to the other side of the lake before saying anything.

“You really want that one?” asked Sera as she stomped alongside Meryell through the lake's shallows. “He's trouble.”

Turning to grin at her, Meryell noted, “We’re all _trouble_ , Sera.”

“Ha! Too right!”

Cassandra cleared her throat before saying, “The Warden seems to be an accomplished fighter. Even with the Fangs and the Chargers augmenting the Inquisition forces we can't afford to turn away a steady blade.”

“Agreed,” commented Solas. He then added, “Though you know he hides something, _da'len_ _._ ”

Meryell turned a flinty gaze back towards the bald elf, staring at him for a long moment before she shifted back forward at Sera’s muttered _Don't let Egg get to you, he's just pissed I threw lizards in his bed roll._ Snorting softly at her fellow rogue’s antics (she'd guessed it was Sera causing the commotion this morning), she spoke firmly in a voice that would carry back to him.

“We've all got shit we hide, Chuckles. You, me, Varric...name a name and they've got something they want to hide. Seems to me like that makes him a perfect fucking addition to this piss pot mess.”


	15. "I won't allow you to throw your life away. Not while I have breath."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Meryell returns to Haven and relates what they discovered going on in Redcliffe, Cullen realizes with muted horror that they are going to be recruiting the mages to save them from the mess they've gotten themselves into. As he fights his own fear of magic, working hard to trust the elven woman with one more thing, she gives him a way to do his own sort of saving.

" _Magister,"_ repeated Cullen slowly. "There is a _Tevinter_ _Magister_ occupying Redcliffe Castle."

"Yes, Commander," confirmed Cassandra in a clipped tone.

“And _another_ Magister warned the Herald that this is some sort of plot to trap her?”

“Not a Magister,” corrected Meryell as she leaned her hip against the map table, her eyes focused on the marker that had been placed over Redcliffe on the map of Ferelden. “We use the term as a sort of blanket word for all Tevinter mages but Magisters are all members of the Magisterium, one of the ruling legislative bodies. Judging by our friend's fine clothes, manners, and the fact that he had a Magister as a mentor, he's probably an Altus. Still high class but he seems to have enough fucking sense to know that the usual blend of Tevinter we think of down here isn't the way to go.”

Cullen arched his eyebrows at her curiously and she shrugged one shoulder as she flicked her eyes briefly up from the marker while grinning at him. “We've never worked out of Tevinter but I got interested in their culture after Boots gave me the Chantry rote on how they were all evil slave-owning blood mages. It's rather hard to find books about them that don’t follow that vein though so I never went much deeper than general society."

"Boots?" repeated Josephine.

"He's the company historian. Don't ask me where he got the fucking name, man's been a Fang since long before I was born. Not to mention fucking irrelevant to our conversation."

Meryell then sighed and continued, "It's also not _just_ a trap laid by a Magister. There's this... _time magic_...which, while useful in a pinch to stab the shit out of a demon or two, is twisting the Veil even more than the rifts already are. Now, I'm not a mage but I've listened to Folke, Gil, and some of the other company mages talk a lot about magic. Rule one: you don't _fuck_ with the damned Veil." She paused to hold up a hand with two of her fingers already extended and the others curled into her palm before she extended a third. "Plus there's apparently a _cult_ after me because of whatever this piss on my hand is. And, going back to the initial points: the fucking _bulk_ of the whole damned mage rebellion is indentured to a Magister and said Magister has _kicked out_ the rightful Arl of Redcliffe." The final two fingers of her hand extended as she made those two points and then she let her hand fall back to where she could tap her fingers against the table.

“Now," she finally finished, "I may not _like_ nobles, mostly because a lot of them seem to be fuckwit's - present noble company excluded..."

Josephine smiled at the comment while Cassandra rolled her eyes, though Cullen could see her mouth twitching as if she _wanted_ to smile. He was still astounded by the fact that Cassandra and Meryell had become as friendly as they had because he certainly hadn’t expected it.

"...but I've always heard the Guerrins were a decent sort. And I'd like to _not_ have a Tevinter force have a foothold in my home country."

"Those are all fair points," Cullen began, fearing that he knew where this was going. With her second father being a hedge mage and her lack of fear around magic, he could easily see Meryell leaning towards going to the rebel mages. Especially since before meeting him she didn't seem to have had a very favorable viewpoint of templars in general, at least not for those that were still willingly serving. "Yet it still stands that even with your company and the Chargers, we simply don't have the manpower to take the castle. So either we find another way in, or we leave Redcliffe for another day and go get the templars."

"And let Redcliffe remain in the hands of a Magister?" hissed Cassandra. "That cannot be allowed to stand!"

Feeling a headache starting to come on, Cullen rested his hands on the hilt of his sword. "Redcliffe Castle," he began, trying to keep his voice as level as possible, "is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden. It's repelled _thousands_ of assaults. Going in there is a _death sentence_." Turning to look at Meryell, he finished, "I won't allow you to throw your life away. Not while I have breath."

Her eyes widened and she started to open her mouth but Leliana beat her to speaking. "If we do not do something, Commander," the spymaster said firmly, "we will lose the mages and leave a hostile foreign power on our doorstep!" She then smirked and added, "I know that you have been away for some time but I expected you to want to defend your home country."

Gritting his teeth together at her words because he _remembered_ her being in that group that found him in Kinloch and she _knew_ what had happened to him, knew why he had asked for reassignment - _any reassignment_ \- outside of Ferelden after he'd been deemed fit for duty again. _This_ Leliana and _that_ Leliana, however, were as different as him and his past self.

Narrowing his eyes at her, Cullen gruffly replied, "The _Breach_ is the priority here, not Ferelden."

"As it stands," interrupted Josephine before the spymaster could speak in retaliation, "we cannot assault the keep. An _Orlesian_ Inquisition's army marching into Ferelden to assault one of its foremost towns would provoke a war, no matter that we were attempting to roust an enemy from its nest. Our hands are tied."

"The Magister..." began Cassandra, sounding almost _wounded_ by the news.

" _Has outplayed us_ ," snapped Cullen firmly. He then caught Meryell rolling her eyes and turned to look at her. "Meryell?"

The elf shook her head at him idly before she looked around at all of them, saying almost snidely, "I like how we argue over the semantics of _attacking_ Redcliffe Castle when I never said a _damned thing_ about attacking the fucking keep. And are we forgetting that I have a _cult_ following me?" She raised her hands up into the air in obvious exasperation as she exclaimed, "Cults just don't go _Oh, I'm sorry that we're ruining your day, we'll just go find someone else to stalk_ and disa-fucking-pear!"

Silence reigned in the room for a moment and Cullen, despite everything in him screaming _don't_ because he feared her bringing the mages to them along with all of the risk of possession and blood magic and _fear_ that could come with them, asked softly, "Then what was your plan?" He trusted her, he reminded himself, enough that he'd told her in the vaguest way about Kinloch and all of Kirkwall. That trust should extend to trusting her with this.

And yet he feared - _desperately feared_ \- being surrounded by so much untrustworthy magic.

Meryell tiled her head towards him, her eyes narrowed and full of question. It took him a minute to realize that she was silently asking if he was _okay_ and he shifted his stance as he felt abruptly awkward at being so easy to read. Then he jerked his head a bare inch to the left and then the right in a sharp gesture of _no_.

She pursed her lips in response then began to speak of her plan despite looking like she wanted to suddenly interrupt the meeting and drag him aside. Not that he would have argued with her if she wanted to as just thinking about being surrounded by mages was making him feel somewhat claustrophobic.

"Redcliffe Castle is just like any other noble's," she explained with a casual shrug. "They've all pretty much have some sort of fucking secret passageway built into them, it's just a matter of finding it. I can't tell you the times that we've had a job to find some fuckwit who thought he was safe just because he was all holed up in his precious keep only to turn around and find us behind him. Find it and we can sneak in all easy like and get rid of the Magister before any of his lackeys notice that shit is up."

"You continue to surprise me, Herald," commented Leliana suddenly. "Such is almost the thinking of a bard."

"Surprise you," asked Meryell with a smile that was all teeth, "or infuriate you?"

The spymaster simply tilted her head to the side, her gaze flitting over to Josephine for a moment, before she replied, "Surprise." She then continued, "There _is_ a passage underneath the castle, designed as a method for the family to escape if the need arose. It is too narrow for our troops, but we could send agents through...provided that we had a distraction."

Meryell snorted and Cullen felt his throat try to close up in terror as he realized where this was going. As she darkly joked, "Is this a way to try and get rid of me?" he tried to retain his composure.

In the war room, they were not Cullen and Meryell despite him continuing to call her by her name. They were _Commander_ and _Herald_ here and he needed to remember that. He _had_ to remember that, especially given that he'd already made one comment that as good as shouted his feelings to the sky.

Struggling around his suddenly thick tongue and the fear tightening his throat, he managed to say, "It's risky, but it could work. If we indeed do go to the mages..."

Meryell let out a heavy sigh and leaned on the war table, her palms flat on the edge of the map of Ferelden as she stared down at the two most prominent markers currently placed upon it's surface. She stood there in silence for a long moment before she looked up at Josephine and asked, "Have we heard anything from the templars?"

He just barely caught the surprised jerk of the three other women in the room out of the corner of his eyes as his own mouth fell open in shock. Josephine, of course, was the first to recover and managed to answer the question.

"Since it seemed that status is what the Lord Seeker wishes," she began, "I have been reaching out to some of the noblest houses in Orlais to approach him with us. If they arrived with us to demand the templars help in closing the Breach, it might be enough to get us inside."

Meryell pursed her lips and he found himself entranced by the motion until he realized she was looking at him, amusement in her eyes. Blinking, he looked around to see the same in the eyes of the other women and coughed, before asking, "Yes?" He _did_ , however, resist the urge to grab the back of his neck.

She continued to give him that amused look as she said, "I asked if you thought that might work, Cullen. Would a bunch of noble pissers demanding action get a rise out of the templars?"

He frowned in response, lifting a hand to rub the leather of one gloved finger across his lower lip as he contemplated his answer. "It would depend upon the Knight-Commander. Or, in this case with the Lord Seeker, whoever is leading them," he replied honestly. Closing his eyes, Cullen let out a quiet breath because the remainder of his answer was going to lead to them going for the mages. He would not keep it from her despite that fact. He would _trust._ "If I had ended up in a similar situation in Kirkwall, I would have been moved to at least listen to the complaints of the nobles. Commander Meredith, however, _did_ end up in several such situations and, that I am aware of, did little to either answer their complaints or even acknowledge them."

Meryell nodded her head at his answer before saying, "Then...I say we go to the mages. Though if we want to keep fucking arguing about it, I'm willing to hear any other reasons for why we shouldn't." His heart sank at the reality that his brothers and sisters - no, _his former brothers and sisters_ , he was no longer a templar - were to be abandoned. " _But_...I have a side project."

"Side project?" repeated Cassandra.

Nodding, the elf lifted a hand from the table to rest it on top of one of the markers - the one for _Therinfal_. Cullen stared at her hand for a moment then slowly dragged his eyes up to her face and found a dearth of sympathy that he hadn't expected in her eyes as their gazes locked. She didn't particularly like templars but she wanted to do _something_ for them despite that.

_For him._

As his heart swelled with affection for the woman, Leliana stepped forward to rest two fingers of each hand lightly on the edge of the war table and asked, "What does this...side project...of yours involve, Herald?"

"A small force," replied Meryell, "to go to Therinfal."

"The Lord Seeker," began Josephine but her voice trailed off as the elf shook her head sharply.

" _Fuck him_ ," she growled. "He doesn't want shit to do with the Inquisition, so let's let him have his way. I bet, though, that not every templar that followed him has the same view of us. I sodding bet you that a fuck sight of them only went because it was the only course of action they thought they could take." Meryell lifted her hand from atop the marker then and jabbed a finger down onto the map's surface in front of it, growling, "So someone goes there and stands outside that damned gate and _talks to them_. Tell 'em they've got _choices_."

Leliana leaned forward slightly as she stated, "And you believe some will come."

Suddenly Meryell's eyes were locked with his again and Cullen felt his mouth try to twitch into a smile as she spoke again.

"If we send our Commander, yes."

Blinking, he stared at her for a moment then burst out laughing because _of course_ he was the choice to go. Rylen was only a Knight-Captain, he had a scattering of Lieutenants and Corporals as well as several unranked members of the Order who'd followed him from Kirkwall, and whatever remnants had escaped the Conclave that had joined them. Other than that there were only the former templars amongst the company. As Meryell had explained to him, however, any that had come to them had been disgraced or expelled from the Order, so they were out.

And he...he had been Knight-Commander (if unofficially) of Kirkwall for four years.

"It is not a _terrible_ idea," Cassandra said slowly.

"Oh fuck you, Seeker," snapped Meryell but there was no anger behind her tone. Cassandra also merely brushed the comment off with a snort instead of the outraged response that they all might have witnessed months ago. Further proof of that strange sort-of friendship that the two women seemed to have formed. She hadn't moved her gaze from him, however, and asked, "Well?"

Cullen just looked at her for a moment in silence, contemplating his answer. Really, though, was there any other answer but _yes_? Especially since he had given her an answer that led to the Inquisition officially taking on the rebel mages as their allies if possible? And if he could give _some_ a different path than the one they were on, did he not have an obligation to do so? If not obligation, _desire_ to do so?

Smiling at her, he answered, "I will go."

Meryell grinned brightly at him in response and the fear-driven knots that had coiled up in his chest loosened just that _little bit_ , enough that they weren't as choking. It would be hard...but he would endure. He had survived Kinloch and Kirkwall, after all.

He would trust her, would trust the decision the five of them had come to, and he would try to save at least a portion of the Order.

* * *

Not unexpectedly, he found Meryell sitting in the darkness of his tent later that night when he had finished seeing to the start of the preparations for his trip to Therinfal. Cullen stopped in the doorway for a moment, staring at her bare feet (which was all he could via the light of the full moon), then he let the flap of the tent fall behind him. As darkness fell again, he set about removing his armor to place on his stand and waited for her to begin the inevitable conversation.

"I'm sorry."

Stiffening because an apology was _not_ the first thing he'd expected to hear from her, Cullen finished settling his breastplate on the shoulders of the armor stand. Then he turned and carefully made his way over to his cot where she was sitting, going by memory. She, thankfully, opened her eyes as he got close and the cat-like gleam of her green eyes helped him to find the edge of the cot so he could ease down onto it. Their thighs pressed close against each other automatically and he wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her even closer.

"For what?" he asked softly.

"Going to the mages."

"Meryell..."

She shook her head and closed her eyes again, cutting off his only indicator of some of her motion until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. "I was watching you," she admitted. "You _fear_ magic, Cullen. And I'm going to be bringing that here.”

He abruptly realized that she was apologizing for causing him pain. For making him remember when he'd been at the mercy of magic and demons.

Sighing, Cullen brought his other arm up and found her shoulder in the dark, following the line of it up until his fingers curved around her jaw. She let out an unsteady breath as he pulled her close, tucking her head underneath his chin. Then he felt her turn her head and she breathed out shakily against his throat as her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

They sat like that for a long moment before he spoke softly.

“I fear magic untrained and unwatched,” he explained. “Left to their own devices, a lot of mages don't have the capability to stay the course. They fall prey to demons or use their abilities to ill ends.”

“You don't fear Folke and he never had a teacher.”

“Your _baba_ is one of the more sensible mages I've ever met. He doesn't count amongst those I'm most wary of.”

Meryell chuckled, saying, “First I get you cursing, now I've got you speaking Elven? What next?”

Chuckling along with her, Cullen noted, “You also have prompted me to accept mages _and_ nobles in some small way via Folke and your Captain.”

“Arnald would _beat me_ if he knew you thought him a noble because of me.”

“I'll endeavour to keep such things between us then, dear thief.”

That made her laugh but it didn't take long for Meryell to become sober again. He felt her other hand running softly up his side then across his chest, unable to stop his muscles from jumping at the unexpected touch. Then her callused fingers and palm were cupping his cheek and he looked down into her gleaming eyes as she leaned away from him.

Years ago he had found the reflective properties of elven eyes off putting. Even with Kath, he'd been unsettled when she'd look at him and her eyes glowed because it made his instincts scream _demon_. Now, with Meryell, he found it more fascinating than anything else.

"What are you thinking?" he softly asked. When she didn't immediately answer, instead stroking her fingers across his cheek before she shifted her hand enough that she could press her thumb against the scar on his lip, Cullen cupped her cheek in his hand. "Meryell?"

"I'm thinking that I don't want to fucking hurt you but I'm going to because the thing that's going to hurt you makes the most damned sense to do," she replied, her voice wavering. She shuddered in his arms and he frowned before grabbing her face in both of her hands, forcing her to look right at him.

" _I will be fine_ ," hissed Cullen, though that was probably far from the truth. He'd suffered from frequent nightmares in Kirkwall - though that number hadn't gone down much since then. In fact, they were _worse_ when he was in the heavy grip of one of his harder bouts of withdrawal. Of course, in Kirkwall he'd had the benefit of his lyrium-fed abilities to keep him from stumbling over the edge into straight panic.

Now he _didn't_ have that ability.

Lyrium still lingered in his body (as evidenced by the fact that he could still feel casting) but it wasn't enough for a smite. He knew that because he still sometimes tested his abilities and while the mental muscles still worked, there was no longer anything there to move. The thought of not having that ability and being surrounded by mages had his heart suddenly pounding in his chest, his pulse jumping in his throat, and he knew that Meryell probably felt one or the other.

Swallowing the sudden fear, Cullen repeated in a softer tone, “I'll be fine.”

Meryell's eyes narrowed up at him before she growled, “You are the most stubborn fucking man I've ever met.” Then her expression softened as she rubbed her thumb across his scar, ending the motion with the digit pressed against his lips. “Promise me that if…”

He cut her off by abruptly moving to cover her hand with his own, tugging it down just enough that he could press a kiss into her palm. As her cheeks flushed, Cullen murmured, “If I am uncomfortable, I will make it known. To you, at least.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes, dear thief, it's a promise.”

That seemed to placate the woman in his arms and she leaned back into him, tucking her head underneath his chin once more. Cullen huffed out a breath as he wrapped his arms around her then tilted his chin to kiss the top of her head.

“Be careful,” he urged softly, thinking of all the ways that her trip to Redcliffe could go badly. At best she could come back with nothing to show for the journey. At worst they could lose her. _He_ could lose her.

If that happened before he even had a _chance_ , he didn't know what he might do.

“ _Dirtha’vhen’an_ ,” she muttered against his throat in reply. Without him having to ask, she immediately translated, “I promise, Cullen.”

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvhen/Elven Translations:**
> 
> dirtha’vhen’an - promise


	16. “What if I don't want to talk to her?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell has seen a lot of shit in her few years. She's seen friends die, seen good people do fucked up things, and so-called bad men do something great. Shit, she's done some of those things herself. She's seen and done things that keep her up some nights.
> 
> But _nothing_ could prepare her for what they found in Redcliffe and it shows when they return to Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go, kiddies. The countdown to Haven burning down starts now.

 

Fear - unbridled, _ridiculous_ fucking fear that had no place yet still lingered like a plague - choked her throat, trying to throw her over the already shaky line between sanity and madness as she rode hard towards Haven ahead of the others.

That future she'd experienced with Dorian in Redcliffe hadn't been real. Varric and Cassandra riding behind her with their eyes and voices clear of the effects of red lyrium was proof enough of that. The bright blue of the sky, that her hand didn't _burn_ like there was fire in the veins underneath her skin, or that they had ridden out of Redcliffe with the village intact and the castle itself in the hands of the Queen, all of these were proof that that terrible _nightmare_ was in fact just that. _Yet the fear still ate at her_.

Fear that she would return to Haven and find the worst of news involving their Commander. Her treacherous mind had come up with many a scenario on the trip back to Haven: dead by a templar sword, slain on the road by bandits, ambushed by the templars and force fed lyrium, or a dozen other imaginings each worse than the last. It had done the same for every other member of the Inquisition and member of her company as well (including every soldier and scout she knew the face of but not the name) but Cullen...Cullen was the worst.

Until she saw them all safe and whole and _alive_ , that fear would keep eating at her.

She rounded the last curve in the road and Haven’s walls rose up, steady as ever, to her left. Ahead she could see soldiers drilling on the training field and could make out the mismatched armor of company members amongst them as the veteran fighters had agreed to help teach the green Inquisition members. The sight stilled a little of the fear before it rose up hot and choking again as she saw silver steel and dark hair standing watch over the field instead of fur and blond hair.

Somehow Meryell retained enough decorum to slow her horse and steered the heavily breathing beast towards Rylen. The former Starkhaven templar saluted her with a clenched fist over his heart before saying, “I'm glad to see you returned, Herald. Sorry to say that the Commander's not back yet. Sure you expected him and not me on the field.”

Trying to swallow past another surge of the choking fear with Cullen’s corpse dancing behind her eyes, Meryell replied, “Not your fault, Captain. Any estimation on how much longer he'll be away?”

“Can't say, messere. Sorry...Herald.”

“I'm practically a Marcher myself merely from how long I've lived there, Captain, so I don't mind the common forms of address. Better that than calling me fucking Herald.”

He grinned up at her - a lopsided sort of expression that twisted the tattoos lining his chin. “Noted, messere,” Rylen commented warmly and she couldn't help but smile back in return since he'd actually _listened to her_. “As for news about the Commander, messere, you'd have to go see the Nightingale. I know she's been keeping in contact via her birds but beyond that I haven't heard much.”

Before Redcliffe she'd have curled her lip at the prospect of having to go to the spymaster for anything. Now she wanted to go almost merely to see her face whole again and not wrecked by torture.

She still didn't like her but the _el_ ’ _u’verelan_ had sacrificed herself for their escape. It may have meant merely an end to that _horror_ of a fucking life for the future's spymaster but it had been more than that. That Leliana had given them the time they needed to escape and the chance to make things right. If she could stop her from digging so deep into her own secrets, Meryell might just _like_ the woman under the mantle of spymaster.

Or, she _could_ just go looking for Cullen herself. She was a decent tracker and he'd been travelling with a mixed troop of templars, soldiers, and scouts along with Blackwall and Sera. They'd leave tracks even with the scouts who knew fieldcraft covering them behind them. All she had to do was trade horses, point her nose towards the east, and _go_.

It would calm every fear she had.

The second she was decided, Meryell felt a heavy hand come down on her shoulder and turned to look into the Iron Bull’s sole eye as she was slightly taller via her horse. “Hey, Boss,” he rumbled. “You're sitting here thinking awful hard. Didn't even notice the Captain telling you he had to go or the rest of your crew coming in.”

He then paused before asking, “Not thinking of riding out after the Commander, are you?”

Distressed at being so easily read, Meryell tilted her chin back and snapped in response, “And if I am?”

“I'd suggest you talk to that redheaded spymaster of yours first.”

Stiffening in the saddle, she did curl her lip now, snarling, “What if I don't _want_ to talk to her?”

Bull started to open his mouth then immediately closed it as suddenly from behind Meryell came the Captain's voice - _her Captain's voice_.

“Then you'll do as you're _fucking ordered_ , girl,” he snapped in a commanding voice as he closed one hand around her horse's reins just under his chin. She instinctively went straight-backed at the tone, long ago having been set into the pattern of obeying that particular voice no matter what.

Grinding her teeth together, Meryell ground out, “Arnald…” only to have him snap the fingers of his other hand right underneath her nose.

“ _Captain,_ ” he hissed.

Bowing her head in response, she echoed in a murmur, “Captain.”

“Better,” growled Arnald. He narrowed his eyes up at her for a long moment before he spoke again. “I read the report your Seeker sent back ahead of you, girl. Sounded like it was a shit hole of a job despite your success in getting the mages on the Inquisition's side. Y'need _rest_ after a pisser of a job like that and I know our lot beat that lesson into your head. So get off the horse.”

Fear choked her again and Meryell turned to look back towards the road, softly beginning, "But I…” before Bull stepped into the path of her vision and Arnald laid his freehand on top of her right knee.

“Get off the horse, girl.”

Dragging her eyes away from the road, Meryell meekly nodded, unable to do anything else past the lump in her throat. As she slid down from the saddle and hit the ground with a jarring thump that shook her from bottom to top, she felt her knees wobble. Arnald’s firm hand on her back a moment later and her grip on the saddle were the only things that kept her from collapsing.

“Fuck talking to the spymaster,” commented Iron Bull suddenly. “I think you need bed, Boss.”

“ _No!_ ”

The cry was out of her mouth before she could stop it, far louder than she'd intended but fear had driven it out of her lungs like a hound loosed to hunt. She felt Arnald’s hands on her shoulders then and he slowly turned her to face him, lifting her chin with two fingers as she tried to tuck her face into her chest.

“Meryell,” he rumbled softly, “what happened in Redcliffe?”

She froze, staring at his eyes, and slowly shook her head. “I _can't._ If I sleep I'll...I'll…” she trailed off, unable to complete the sentence with the words. She hadn't managed more than an hour of sleep every night on their way home, her dreams haunted by the all-consuming red light that swallowed up everything and everyone she held dear. “Just...let me go talk to Leliana.”

“Since when do you call her by her name?”

_Since she looked at me with the face and eyes of a woman dead and yet still lived. Since she gave her life so I could live._

“Since fucking now,” replied Meryell, reaching for annoyance and rage in an attempt to fight the fear that was causing her hands to shake. She stepped away from Arnald then and he let her go, though she could see worry still reflected in his eyes. “I just…”

Halting, she closed her eyes before finishing weakly, “I just need to see that everyone's okay, Captain.” Without waiting for either of them to respond, she started walking.

Meryell made a slow round of the soldiers encampment, smiling at every face that was warm and alive. She then made her way into the Chargers camp, which was positioned at the wedge between the back of the soldiers and the Fangs, and just counted heads because she didn't know them well enough yet for anything else.

Walking into the Fangs camp, she called names and greetings as she went, returning them in kind. She asked about absent faces and went over the rolls again and again in her head until she'd accounted for practically everyone.

She walked to the blacksmith and chatted briefly with Harritt and his workers, running her fingers over the pristine ridges of the Inquisition’s eye on a breastplate to cement that reality over the battered and broken ones she'd seen in the future.

Dennet happily told her about the newest requisitions of the stable and they talked briefly about where the company got their own mount's from.

Then she mounted the steps up into Haven proper and began making her rounds of the streets. She smiled at everyone out and about, spoke at length to Seggrit about how business was doing, checked in with Flissa to make sure no one was bothering her, visited Adan to tell him that they'd bought up some herbs that Haven didn't have while they were in Redcliffe, inquired several minutes with Threnn about Inquisition supplies, and finally finished her minor rounds with Mother Giselle inside the Chantry, asking about the clerics and healers that they had.

Meryell poked her head into Josephine’s office and then ducked back out when she saw both she and Minaeve looked heavily involved in their work.

_Almost there. Just...just one more._

Exhaustion hit her as she stepped into Leliana’s tent and Meryell gasped as she felt her knees buckle. Rough, callused hands caught her and she felt leather and chainmail press against her cheek as she was manhandled into a chair. She heard her title - that damned, _miserable_ title - and then a moment later the unbelievable.

“ _Meryell_ , here. Drink this,” said Leliana and she realized that the woman was pressing a cup into her hands.

“Not poisoning me, are you?” she asked, trying to cover her moment of weakness with a deflection.

“Not today, Herald.”

Meryell frowned at that, her eyebrows wrinkling, and asked, “Why not?” She then remembered that Arnald had said he'd read Cassandra's report about what had happened in Redcliffe - the report she'd sent to the very woman in front of her right now - and she _shook_.

One callused hand cupped hers where she had them curled around the cup, lifting it easily up to where the rim touched her lip. Meryell inhaled the scent of warm cinnamon, apples, and the richness that came with a long-steeped dark tea and looked up to lock her eyes with the spymaster’s. Leliana’s blue eyes were utterly missing the hard, flinty look that had accompanied them for her tenure in Haven up until this moment. The eyes looking at her now were starkly _sympathetic_ and that was what finally pushed her to lifting the cup to drink from it.

As the warmth curled down her throat and into her belly, she softly asked, “Why suddenly so kind?”

“Because what you witnessed was a terrible thing,” replied the other woman. Leliana then turned towards one of her many tables and picked up a heavy looking piece of parchment. She ran her fingers along the edge before she spun back around on a heel and extended it towards Meryell. “This is the last letter I received from the Commander. It came two days ago.”

Fear clutched at her gut, her throat, her hands, and Meryell just stared at her for a moment. Then she took another sip from the cup, the heat of the tea helping to draw her back to reality, and lowered it with one hand as she reached for the letter with the other. She flicked her eyes across Cullen's careful hand - so different from her scrawl but he'd had the benefit of a Chantry education where she'd only had what her parents knew - before finally finding what she sought.

 _Sera has been most useful in helping to find ways for templars_ _who want to join us to escape the Redoubt since the Lord Seeker barred the gate. She does, however, report that this last run may be her final as they seem to be hunting down her entrances. That and those who've joined us report that their superiors are acting increasingly erratic. I loathe to leave the Order like this when there are no doubt more within who need aid but I have successfully completed the task Meryell_ _recommended for me._

 _We will wait another day after I send this letter in case of others then begin making our return to Haven. Over three dozen templars_ _will be accompanying us, though I will question each on our return trip to make sure that they will be able to serve alongside the mages._

Relief made her sag in the chair Leliana had sat her in and her hands shook again. It wasn't him _there_ next to her but it was _enough_. Enough that she could finally rest.

Licking her lips, Meryell held the letter back out towards the other woman before saying, “Thank you.”

Leliana merely inclined her head before turning her attention back to her tables and...whatever it was that she did in this tent. Without looking over her shoulder she said, “Finish your tea, Herald. I have one of my runner's looking for your father.”

Nodding, Meryell tipped her head back, resting the base of her neck against the top of the chair's simple wooden back. After a moment she closed her eyes, just listening to the sound of papers shuffling inside the tent and the bustling noise of Haven in full swing coming in from the wide open door flaps. She sat like that for a long time before she opened one eye and focused on the back of Leliana’s hooded head.

“I was actually happy to see you, you know,” she commented softly. As the other woman froze but didn't turn, she went on to ask, “Cassandra related what happened in her report?”

“As well as that mage you brought back with you could describe. He told her a great many things about that so-called future.”

Meryell nodded absently then asked, “Did it mention your part in everything?”

For a moment she didn't think the other woman was going to answer, then Leliana turned to lean against the table she'd been working at, bracing her weight on her hands. “In brief,” she replied. “I believe Cassandra was waiting for all of us to be present again before a full debriefing about what happened was done.”

“Makes sense.”

“It does. What does not is why you were happy to see me.”

Sitting up, Meryell drained the rest of the now cooling tea and extended the cup towards Leliana. As the other woman took it, she replied, “They had tortured you, done _unspeakable_ fucking things to you...and yet, you resisted. For no reason that I could grasp other than that you weren't going to give those _bastards_ one inch of fucking satisfaction.” Shaking her head, she continued, “You helped us for revenge, to see them pay, and I thought for a while that it consumed you. Then, when the cards were down and our lives were trotted out on the fucking line, you stepped up and held it so we could escape.”

Leliana arched an eyebrow and said, “That should not surprise you.”

“That's _not_ what surprised me.” Reaching around to brace a hand on the back of the chair, Meryell rose on still shaky legs to stand in front of the other woman. Catching her eyes, she finished softly, “What surprised me is that after _all that horror_ you turned and looked at me with hope in your eyes for one fleeting instant right before you took the step forward to stand between us and the horde coming to destroy us. You... _she_...earned my respect and my gratitude for that but I am _so very fucking glad_ you aren't her.”

“And yet I am.”

“ _Could be_ ,” corrected Meryell sternly. “I sure as shit don't plan to die anytime soon so that world, timeline, whatever won't ever happen. Things are just starting to get interesting after all.” She then smiled at Leliana, saying, “If you weren't such a secret-hogging zealot, I think I could like you, _el_ ’ _u’verelan_.”

Leliana arched an eyebrow before asking, “Is that word a compliment or an insult?”

“It's a descriptor,” replied Folke before Meryell could as he entered the tent. Though she'd already spotted him down in the Fangs’ camp, some of her fear abated again at the sight of him. “And an accurate one,” he added before turning to hold out his hands to her. “Come, _ara vherain_. Evune has been helping me put your cabin in order and you look like you desperately need to be in bed.”

The fear of the nightmares - of seeing them _die_ or half-consumed by red lyrium like Fiona had been in that future - lanced through her and Meryell took a shaky step towards him. Leliana’s hand caught her elbow at almost the same time that Folke caught her hands and she shuddered in their grips as they kept her upright.

“I don't...I…”

“Leliana,” said Folke firmly over her as her voice trailed off, “may I ask a favor?” Meryell assumed that the spymaster nodded but she didn't see it as the woman released her elbow while Folke slowly pulled her in against his chest. “Send one of them down to the Fangs camp to our healers tent. There's a particular sleeping draught that one of our mages makes. Just have them say it's for Meryell - _not_ the Herald, they have to _specifically_ say it's for Meryell so they get the right one - and bring it to her cabin.”

“I'll see it done. Herald…” Meryell turned her head to look at the woman, her cheek pressed against Folke's shoulder, and saw there was still sympathy in her eyes. Then they cleared, that hard look coming back, but the hand Leliana rested briefly on her back was gentle. “Be well. We need you in this as much as anyone else.”

Before she could say anything in response, the spymaster had turned back to her tables and Folke was steering her out of the tent. He then paused in front of Threnn and quickly divested her of her dagger harnesses in a few swift moves before tossing them on the quartermaster’s table with a query about getting them cleaned up and returned to either the Herald's cabin or the Fangs’ camp. Then he swung her up into his arms and Meryell wrapped her arms around his neck as she buried her face against his jaw. She breathed in his scent - faint hints of lyrium and herbs alongside the leather and sweat that came from common exertion - and finally felt the last of the tension drain out of her body in one fell swoop.

Mostly because Folke smelt like _home_.

Meryell was in a bit of a daze after that, exhaustion having finally fully caught up to her now that she'd stopped fiercely guarding the proverbial gate. She was vaguely aware of them reaching her cabin and registered Evune’s _vallaslin_ _-_ honoring Andruril, she had learned the patterns from her father's teachings - above her as she was divested of armor and then clothes. Then it was just Evune there (because Folke respected her privacy despite knowing she didn't care about family seeing her naked) as she ran a warm wet cloth across her skin in lieu of a full bath to wipe off some of the sweat and grime. It seemed only a moment later that her father was back and helping the older elf finish putting a loose pair of pants and shirt on her before they both tucked her into bed.

Evune pressed a kiss to her forehead and murmured, “ _On nydha, da_ ’ _assan_.” Meryell smiled tiredly in response and settled heavily into the bed as she watched the other woman leave, somehow fully registering the lingering hand that she rested on Folke's shoulder.

As he walked over and settled on the edge of the bed, leaning back against her curled up knees with one arm behind her back to brace himself, she softly asked, “Did you and Evune come back to your _understanding_?” They'd been dancing around each other for years, her adoptive father and the former Dalish woman, since long before Meryell had even joined the company. She knew they'd shared each other's beds many a time (she'd literally walked into Folke's room back at headquarters plenty of times to find them still abed in a tangle of limbs) but they'd never made it anything official. They just called it their _understanding_ since neither of them were committed to settling for a single relationship (mostly because Evune didn't care to be tied to one lover's bed and Folke had pointedly said that Meryell was the main lady in his life).

Chuckling, he replied, “After we thought you were...well, I won't go back into that. So, yes, for the moment she's letting me warm her bed again. Though I'm working on that _dashing_ Captain your _vhen_ ’ _an’ara_ has.”

Unable to stop her flush, she murmured, “You heard that. At the game.” Then she registered his other words and blinked at him several times. “ _Baba_ , I'm pretty sure Rylen doesn't swing that way.”

Folke just grinned and reached forward to brush hair back from her face. “I have good information that he _does_. You know I can't resist an accent...minus Orlesian.” And he thankfully didn't make another comment about how she referred to Cullen.

“No offense to the Captain,” she said with a small smile, quoting his usual words that followed that whenever he said it.

“Aye, no offense to the Captain.” He then held up a little wax stoppered phial that was half filled with a murky pond scum colored liquid, shaking it slightly at her as he said, “The spymaster’s runner came through with the sleeping draught while Evune was cleaning you up. Do you still need it?”

Fear flickered through her again but thankfully now Meryell was so fucking bone breakingly _tired_ that she barely felt its touch. Her mind, however, it could go so many places once she drifted into the Fade and there it _could_ reach her. So she just nodded and Folke smiled before pulling his belt knife to pop off the seal before he slipped an arm around her shoulders to lift her up enough to not choke on it. As the potion made its way down her throat - which even _felt_ slimy - she freed a hand from her blankets to reach for his.

With their fingers entwined, she asked softly, “Don't leave me alone.”

“Never,” replied Folke, as he leaned over to kiss her forehead. Meryell just nodded in response and curled over deeper into her bed and rubbed her face against the pillow, already feeling the draught start on its work. It dragged her under moments later and she went willingly, completely trusting her father to guard her dreams.

* * *

Nearly two weeks later, a scout found her in the blacksmith and alerted her to movement of a large, mostly templar force on the road with the Commander at its head. Meryell immediately dropped the new blade she'd been working on with Harritt then froze, an apology tumbling out of her mouth automatically at the disrespect to the weapon (a lesson that old Morys had taught her). He just waved her on with an understanding smile and she bolted for the stable next door.

Without bothering with a saddle, she just slipped a bridle over her Forder’s head and swung up onto its bare back. Urging him out of the stall and down the road, Meryell felt a quiver of the fear that had haunted her on the way back to Haven. It was considerably weaker, helped by so long back amongst the bulk of the Inquisition as well as knowing he _was right there_ , but it still itched at the back of her skull.

As soon as she swung her horse around the bend in the road, though, she heard Sera shout, “Glowy Bits!” and saw the three of them riding at the forefront of the group. Blackwall was even _smiling_ , which was odd for the normally rather serious man. Probably over feeling like he'd done something for the good.

Then her eyes fell on Cullen and _relief_ crashed into her like a fucking bronto. There were new scuffs on his armor that hadn't been there before and a bandage on one cheek but he was _whole_ and _there_ and _he was smiling at her_.

Urging her horse forward, she fell in between him and Sera and - ignoring the exaggerated kissy faces the younger elf was making - reached out for one of his hands. He didn't pause at all in curling his fingers around hers then she watched him frown, worry creasing his brow.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “Cassandra, Josephine, Varric, and _Leliana_ all wrote me on the way back telling me that they were worried about you. _Leliana_ , Meryell. They all said that something happened in Redcliffe?”

Shaking her head, Meryell said firmly, “I'm fine. I don't want to talk about that right now. We'll tell Josephine to set up for the full talk about it this afternoon. Right now…” She trailed off for a moment, thinking of him alone, of him leading an assault on Redcliffe Castle to find her, of him dead on the battlefield, and tightened her grip on his hand.

“Right now,” she finally finished, “I just want to be with you.”

He obviously was still worried and had numerous questions but Cullen just nodded as they rounded the bend in the road. Then he leaned over to peck a kiss against her temple and murmured, “I would like that, dear thief.”

No matter that she had to face that horror again later, to relate the things that had happened, Meryell felt utterly content. _She_ was alive, _he_ was alive, _Haven_ was alive, and they were still in whatever this fight was.

And she could face anything knowing that they were all safe.


	17. “I would like to have one fucking minute to celebrate what's supposed to be our sodding victory! This is not a hard request to fulfill!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's fights you can win and fights you can't. You run from the latter, live to fight another day.
> 
> Meryell had lived by Harvard's rule ever since she had joined the Fangs in training under the old mercenary. And it had kept her alive for a damned long time.
> 
> Of course, sometimes there _is_ no running. So as Haven burned she did what Folke had always added as an addendum to Harvard's rule: if you can't run, you fucking put the other bastard into the ground. Even if you go there with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Haven disappears in 3, 2, 1...

“I would _like_ ,” shouted Meryell as she pulled both daggers out of a dead templar's side, “to have one _fucking minute_ to celebrate what's _supposed to be our sodding victory_! This is not a hard request to fulfill!”

“Apparently they didn't get that particular notice,” drawled Dorian as he came to a stop next to her, nudging a toe at the fallen templar’s helmet. She hadn't spent much time with the mage since Redcliffe but what she had had been damned entertaining. They'd had an instant connection, hitting it off right off the bat the first time they'd sat down without a crisis in the way. Redcliffe had formed a bond between them and right now she'd rather have his magic at her back over Chuckles’.

Plus Chuckles was at least somewhat of a healer. She'd been thinking about other people too, not just herself when she'd picked people to come with her.

“There was a notice?” yelled Varric from the other side of the trebuchet they were defending, firing Bianca at the steadily approaching templars. Cassandra made a disgusted huff from where she stood flicking blood off her blade ahead of him, making the dwarf grin. “Now you've got _three of us_ , Seeker.”

“Do not remind me, Varric.”

“Incoming again!” shouted one of the soldiers at the trebuchet and Meryell nodded in quick recognition. She and Cassandra fell quickly into habit with the other woman standing in the middle of the path they were taking towards them and her ready at her back. Varric climbed to high ground on top of the trebuchet’s base and she heard Dorian muttering what sounded like Tevene curses from behind her as he laid down some sort of glowing glyph on the road, the magic flaring bright before it faded away to a duller glow. Around them were other Inquisition soldiers and scatterings of both the Fangs as well as a few Chargers who also readied themselves for the next line of enemies.

“Holy Maker,” she heard Varric utter then and her stomach dropped, nausea filling her as she saw what he saw coming towards them.

The first set of enemies they'd faced had just been normal looking templars. Silver steel armor (though it looked like it had all seen better days, unlike their own templars) and swords that were supposed to serve the Chantry. The second set that was coming at them now were _fucking twisted_.

Eyes glowed red from behind the slits of helmets, open-faced helms showed off skin glowing eerily with veins of red, and some had horrendous looking _spikes_ of red lyrium erupting through flesh and steel.

 _This_ was what the Templar Order had become. _Fucking horrors_.

Remembering Fiona half-fucking- _eaten_ in that cell under Redcliffe and finding Varric and Cassandra infected with it made Meryell see red herself. It was _red lyrium._ These men and women had taken it by choice or by force and now they were at _her fucking gate_ trying to kill _her people_.

She wasn't sure when exactly the Inquisition had become something more than just a _job_ but it was.

“Inquisition! _Take them out!_ ” she bellowed and it seemed like every throat around her _roared_ in answer. Everything went in a blur from there as her focus narrowed, becoming nothing more than sticking mostly to Cassandra's back. She danced around the woman's shield, darting forward through narrow openings to stab her daggers up through gaps in armor or slice the tendons in exposed legs, before sliding back behind cover. A few got lucky and scored glancing blows on her but it wasn't anything major.

She had been working hard at getting faster to avoid a situation like that demon tearing her arm open happening again.

As soon as the second wave was down, she heard a familiar voice shouting her damned title as they ran down the hill behind them.

“Herald! _Herald!_ ”

Turning she saw the young man who'd been standing post at the tavern door the night she'd taken it over for Diamondback. “Edan! _Get the fuck down!_ ” she exclaimed, seeing him on the hill above them, right in sure sight of their enemies. His eyes went wide in response and just as he turned to jump down, an arrow caught him in his unprotected throat. At that point his feet slid out from under him and he slipped down the hill to crumple in a tangle of limbs at the bottom.

Meryell ran to him and knew as soon as she crouched down that he was a goner. The arrow had taken him clean through the throat, probably severing a major vein on its way, and he was already bleeding profusely as he tried to still talk to her.

“He-Herald,” he coughed, flecks of blood spewing from his lips. “Sou-south tre...buchet...needs…”

“Don't speak,” she urged him and the boy just _grinned_ at her, flashing bloodstained teeth as his eyes started to go hazy.

“Dying...ma’am,” Edan managed. He reached out blindly with a wild flail of one one arm and she caught his hand in a fierce grip, squeezing tight. “S-send…’em...to the... _fu-fucking_...Void!”

Meryell watched him die then, watched the light leave his eyes, and she nearly _screamed_ out loud. Even with as long as she'd been fighting and watching people die...watching a _child_ (even one old enough to go into battle) die had never gotten any easier.

Standing up, she took her daggers back in hand from where she'd stabbed them into the frozen ground and saw the next wave coming. And all of them - her team, Fangs, Inquisition, and Chargers - were looking at her.

“You heard the lad!” she roared, as loud as any sergeant drilling new recruits. As she took her place back behind Cassandra, Meryell finished viciously, “Let's send these bastards to the fucking Void!”

Anger at being attacked made a _damned_ good incentive. Anger that came from watching someone you _knew_ , at least in passing, that made it a _fucking imperative_ to see some payback.

Thanks to that, the third wave went down almost as soon as they'd clashed and then Meryell was swinging around to face Astrid at a tug on her arm. The big blonde had blood streaming down half of her face from a head wound but there was enough blood painting the head of her axe to say that she'd won most of the fights so far.

“Get your ass over to that trebuchet,” she growled. “We'll hold the fort here.”

In the middle of pitched battle was no time for questions and she certainly had no regard for rank and file other than the Captain. None of the company did. So she just bared her teeth in a smile, slapped Astrid’s armored shoulder, and growled, “Fuck them bloody.”

“Only way I know how, girlie!” Astrid spun away then, shouting, “Fangs! _We hold here!_ You with us Chargers, Inquisition?” As they answered her with wordless shouts of confirmation, Meryell motioned to the others before she started sprinting up the hill towards the south trebuchet.

The fact that Cassandra managed to match pace with her in much heavier armor and bearing a shield just confirmed the formidable force of the woman.

As soon as they reached the trebuchet, Meryell launched herself at the back of the closest templar archer who'd helped kill their men who'd been posted up there while Cassandra _roared_ at the other templars standing over the bodies. She stabbed her dagger into the archer’s exposed neck that wasn't covered by his leather helmet and jerked back from the blood that sprayed out of the wound, turning her head away and closing her eyes. Fuck only _knew_ what red lyrium might do to the blood of those it infected and she in no way wanted to test the theory by swallowing some of it.

Spinning away from his falling body, she fell back into place behind Cassandra and they quickly wiped the floor with the rest of the templars. Meryell jerked her head up at the trebuchet, attempting to calculate its proposed trajectory, and quickly realized they'd been turning it to aim at the snowy mountain sides that surrounded Haven. Bury the bulk of the enemy and they _might just_ have a chance to walk away from this shit show.

“Cover me!” she snapped out, stabbing her daggers into the edge of the trebuchet as she climbed up onto it. Sheathing them covered in blood would have been a bad idea and she needed them ready.

Grabbing the wheel that she knew turned the big machine, Meryell growled as she threw all of her weight into moving it. Once she got the wheel turning it became easier and, thankfully, her body was too keyed up on battle to feel the inevitable burn in her muscles. She vaguely heard the others fighting and resisted looking, focusing fully on buying them some time.

_There!_

Feeling the wheel lock into place, she kicked out at where she knew the other wheel to fire the trebuchet was, refusing to take her eyes off of the snowy sides of the mountain and the torches of the force that was arrayed against them. The big machine _shuddered_ underneath her as the mechanics of it sent whatever had been loaded into it whipping through the air and she bit her lip as it hit high on the mountainside with little more than a nearly invisible puff of yellow fire. For a brief moment she didn’t think that it had done anything at all then the whole _side of the mountain_ started sliding downward in a great rumbling cascade of snow and ice and stone, gaining momentum until it plowed into the templar army in a thunderous crash that nearly deafened her.

Meryell just blinked before she punched a fist in the air and howled victoriously to the heavens, “ _Suck it, you fucking shitebags!_ ” For a moment it felt like cheers came from everywhere in response...and then the shadow fell over her accompanied by a roar that split the air like thunder. Bile rose in her throat immediately, nausea and gibbering fear warring for dominance in her belly, and she took one step to grab her daggers before leaping off the edge of the trebuchet without even looking to see if anything or anyone was in her way.

Only one fucking creature in the whole of Thedas made that profile in shadow.

Only _one_ made that terrible shrieking noise.

She’d hoped to never see another in person ever a-fucking-gain.

The fireball hit what seemed like _seconds_ after she’d cleared the trebuchet and, instead of hitting the ground running, Meryell tucked her legs so she fell immediately into a roll. Heat blossomed across her back and the heavy main beams of the machine went skyward as she felt smaller shards and splinters pepper her armored shoulders and arms as well as the unprotected back of her head since she’d left her helmet in her cabin.

Using her continuing forward momentum, she went from her forward roll directly onto her feet and got as much distance from the trebuchet as quickly as she could to avoid getting hurt by it. Only then did she turn to look for the rest of her team and relief rushed through her before the fear came back.

“A _dragon?_ ” exploded Dorian as he walked backwards towards her, looking none the worse for wear except for the splinters he was trying to shake out of his robes and the mussed lines of his normally carefully coiffed hair.

“Good eye, Sparkler!” Varric was bleeding from a shallow cut to his forehead but Meryell could see that it was only superficial and nothing that needed particular worry. Other than that, he seemed fine.

Cassandra was at her side then, saying quickly, “We are not prepared to face such a foe, Herald. Retreat is the only option,” and she remembered abruptly the conversation with her about the Pentaghasts being _dragon hunters_. If the woman from the family that had prided themselves for _years_ on hunting the very thing that had just turned _back_ the tide of the battle against them an instant after they'd won it said to _fucking run_ , Meryell wasn’t going to argue.

“Back!” she shouted as she started moving back down the hill. There probably weren’t any Inquisition soldiers near enough to hear her but she still made it as loud as she could just in case. “Get inside the gates!”

Haven was on _fucking fire_ when they came down the hill from the trebuchet.

Meryell took it all in with one glance. What tents had been left down where the Fangs, Chargers, and soldiers had made camp after the first quick initial takedown to save what they could had been made were either ablaze or trampled. She could see the last of a line of wagons heading further down the hill towards the gate down that way, its back protected by a line of hard-eyed archers who kept their foes at bay with a hail of arrows until they reached the safety the heavy gate would provide. Members of the Fangs were clearing the burning stables as quickly as they could, simply opening gates and driving the occupants within out with poles or just freeing panicked mounts from the halters that were securing them. If they were lucky, they’d be able to eventually retrieve them - providing that they and the mounts survived.

Then she realized that Harritt was beating on the door of the house that was connected to the forge, kicking and punching it furiously, and bolted towards him. “What the _fuck!_ ” she exploded as she grabbed his elbow in a tight grip.

“I just need inside, Herald!” replied the man.

“Is it worth your _life_ , Harritt?” she bellowed in response, resisting the strong urge to just shake the man. Haven was coming down around their fucking _ears_ and he was trying to get _into_ a burning building instead of _away_ from it.

He just tilted his chin up as he answered, “It’s worth a lot of things.”

Meryell drew back her lip in a sneer before snapping, “Cassandra! Door!” Thankfully the warrior didn’t even question the statement, just strode up to the door with the same determined expression that she wore when facing down their enemies, and kicked it hard enough to rattle teeth. The door flew open and she slapped Harritt’s shoulder before snarling, “Don’t fucking _die._ That’s an order!”

“Aye, Herald!” he said with a sharp nod before he dove into the building.

Jerking her head at the others, they plowed through the chaos in front of the stables and she saw Cullen standing in front of the one open wing of the main gate, his voice bellowing out over the immediate area.

“Move it, _move it! Gustav, move your fucking ass! Morgan, Alex, that means the same damned thing for you!_ ”

Any other time but right then she’d have at least smiled at him cursing.

Sliding into place opposite him at the gate, Meryell waved her team onward before shouting herself at the others she could see, “ _Move! Move for your lives, you sons of bitches!_ ” Several more, including Harritt, ran between them and then she felt Cullen’s fingers grip her shoulder as he grabbed the inner handle of the gate with his other hand. Normally it would have been too heavy for him to move on his own but the wild energy of a life-or-death situation was a bitch of a thing.

She swung around the other wing of the gate right before he pulled it shut and helped him and two soldiers haul the bar down over them both, for what use it would end up being in the face of a dragon or what was left of the army. He was already moving the moment it was secure, shouting, “Everyone back to the Chantry! It’s the only place that might hold against that... _that beast!_ ”

Halfway up the stairs, he turned to look at her and she saw _despair_ in his eyes.

“At this point,” he said, still in that commanding tone, “just made them work for it.”

Reaching for his arm as she stepped forward, Meryell gripped his bracer hard and hissed, “ _Cullen_.” She couldn’t have him giving up _now_. He was as much of an important figure in the Inquisition as she was, he was the face that soldiers _looked up to_ , and he couldn’t show them how despairingly _bad_ everything was.

His eyes locked with hers for a moment, jaw tight and lines around his eyes set into tense crinkles, before he growled, “Clear the town. Make sure everyone gets to the Chantry.”

All Meryell could do was nod and let him go and hope that he got what she had been trying to say without words.

“Clear the buildings!” she snapped to her team as she took the steps up to the first main level of the town in three big leaps. “Clear the streets! Get everyone up to the Chantry! Now, now, _now!_ ” Her first target was a building that was clearly occupied by someone judging by the cries for help. She kicked twice at the handle of the door and managed to smash it inwards, diving inside before it even had a chance to slam against the wall.

“Herald!” cried Seggrit from the floor, the man choking on smoke. She rushed to him, kicking a burning bit of wood out of the way, and got down to put her shoulder underneath his. His hand scrabbled at her opposite shoulder before it held and he _thankfully_ was able to stumble alongside her (because Maker knew she wasn't strong enough to tote a fully grown human man on her own). As soon as they were out the door, two Inquisition soldiers took him from her, and she sprinted full on towards the fight she could see going on just beyond the gate that led to the last trebuchet.

She cut the hamstrings of the archer trying to fire into the melee and saw Cassandra fighting back-to-back with Lysette, one of the templars who'd already been with the Inquisition before Cullen's trip to Therinfal. The two warriors swiftly cut down the rest of their foes and then they were off, pounding up the stairs with the rest of the stragglers.

Turning her head to the right, she saw Varric and a Fang helping a limping Flissa around the corner of the tavern. Dead templars were splayed out on the ground in front of the Singing Maiden as it burned, tainting memories of so many nights spent there.

“Meryell!” came Dorian’s voice from just above them, from the raised ground where Threnn and the spymaster had their territory. “Quartermaster is clear!”

“Healers?” she snapped back, already moving towards the tavern to climb the hill to where Chuckles usually stood and where Adan had finally been able to take back his actual job after they'd recruited more healers.

“I'll meet you there!” shouted the mage as he disappeared from sight.

Meryell gritted her teeth as she saw flames rising from Adan’s hut, knowing that there were explosive pots - pots she'd fucking _taught him how to make_ \- sitting right in the center of the open area between the cabins. She practically leapt up the stairs, flinging out an arm at Cassandra as she saw a crumpled form to the left of the pots. Lysette dove past her towards Adan’s crumpled form just as Dorian appeared from around the corner of a cabin to do the same and she spun towards Solas, who was holding a barely visible barrier around the pots to keep the flames from setting them off.

Sweat was beaded on his forehead, though whether it was from heat or effort was a mystery, but he smiled grimly at the sight of her.

“ _Da_ ’ _len_ ,” he greeted, voice low as his eyes did not stray from the pots.

She didn't even think. There was no smarmy response for this, no snark, no cold words worth saying as Haven burned around them. He was saving people - saving _her_ people, though fuck knew when she'd encompassed them all in that bubble - and that was _enough_.

“Hold, _hahren_ ,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument as she sheathed her daggers with no mind for the consequences. His eyebrows twitched before he nodded, his fingers stretching out even further as the barrier turned a darker shade of blue that made it more visible. Swinging around beside him, she gripped his elbow and watched the others as they got away, slowly walking him around the pots. As soon as they were clear, she growled, “Drop it and _run_.”

She'd give credit to the proud fucker; even though they disliked each other, he _listened_. The barrier fell and she heard the pained shriek of several of those horrors as they got caught in the conflagration. It made her bare her teeth in a smile and think, _Serves you right for fucking with us._

Meryell still had her hand on his elbow as they ran into the Chantry moments before two soldiers slammed the door shut, closing off the sounds of battle to a muffle. And yet, somehow, it was worse inside.

Armor scraped against stone as soldiers and scouts and mercenaries paced, civilians huddled in frightened knots back towards the war room or in the wings of the main hall, children sniffled in confusion as their cries were muffled by their parent or guardian. Tension was high and as she leaned over, bracing her hands against her thighs to catch her breath, she could _feel_ it thrumming. Like a mandolin with its strings drawn too tight or someone singing an off key pitch.

“Poppet!”

She straightened to meet Folke and found him looking at her in horror. Remembering the blood that had spattered her, she reached out to close her fingers around his hands as they rose with faint green light dancing around them. “It's not mine, _baba_ ,” Meryell insisted. “Save your magic for someone who needs it.” As he grimaced in response, she bounced up onto her toes to kiss his cheek, breathing, " _Eth, baba. Din telsilen._ "

"I _always_ worry about you, _ara vherain_ ," he replied, grabbing her head just long enough to plant a kiss on her forehead. Folke then turned and clapped Solas on the shoulder, causing the elf to look at him askance as he said, "Come on, Chuckles. There's wounded in the ambassador's office and we didn't get a lot of mages skilled at healing in here during the chaos."

She watched them go for a moment then turned as a wheezing noise pierced her ears, surprised at the sight of that asshole of a cleric Roderick sitting a chair with one hand clasped over the very obvious hole in his side. As Meryell took a step towards him, she became aware of the boy who stood up from a crouch next to him, all patchwork clothes and a ridiculous hat that covered straw-colored hair and from under which blinked the largest blue eyes she'd ever seen in a human.

"He tried to stop a templar," the boy stated matter-of-factly, his voice so calm and even in the chaos of the Chantry that it set alarm bells off in her head. He turned his head to look down at the cleric as he finished, "The blade went deep. No healer can help now. He's going to die."

"Ch-charming boy," coughed Roderick, blinking his eyes several times before he even seemed to see her. "Herald, I..."

"Meryell!"

She jerked her head around at the sound of Cullen's voice then looked back down at Roderick, saying quickly, "Hold that thought." Then she turned to the boy, taking in the shoulder sheaths that rode on his back with two wicked looking dagger hilts extending from them, and ordered, "You keep an eye on him." Honestly she didn't know where he'd come from, had never seen him before...except she _had_. He'd been the one at the gate, the one who'd announced that the Elder One was coming for her and had pointed him out as he rose up on one of the hills overlooking Haven with that man that Cullen had known the name of. _Cole._

As she shook her head in confusion, the boy said, "I will watch. He has something important to say." Before she could ask what the fuck he was talking about, a hand gripped her elbow and Meryell turned to look up at Cullen.

His eyes - the amber usually as warm and inviting for her as the rest of him now starkly _cold_ \- caught hers as he pulled her away from Roderick and Cole into the center of the room, his voice low so as to not be overheard. "Our position is not good," he said quickly. "That damned dragon stole back whatever we earned with that landslide. And we've barely got a quarter of our forces here in the Chantry, not enough to even pretend to hold resistance against what's outside."

"A quarter," she repeated softly. Because a good portion of the Fangs, Chargers, and soldiers had started on immediate damage control as soon as the alarm bells had started ringing. Most of them had gone then in the initial takedown, protection for the civilians that they'd practically tossed into the wagons alongside random gear and foodstuffs. It had been the first order that they'd given out and she'd ordered Arnald herself to make sure that everyone in that caravan stayed safe. He'd taken the bulk of the Fangs with him to see it done since they'd never intended on holding Haven.

The original plan had been to distract long enough for them them to get away. That damned dragon, which no one _could_ have suspected would appear, had completely massacred that plan.

Shaking herself, Meryell looked up at him and asked, "What options do we have left?"

"So far as I'm aware," he replied, "there's still the last trebuchet. Another landslide would bury them."

"And fucking Haven," she stated sharply. Closing her eyes, she muttered, "What the fuck does this Elder One _want_?"

" _You_."

She and Cullen both jerked away from the soft voice and Meryell stared at Cole, who stepped up so he stood between them now. His eyes, however, were on her as he said, "He doesn't care about the village or the people. But he will kill them to reach the Herald."

" _Me?_ " snarled Meryell. "Maker's fucking balls, I'm just a damned _mercenary_."

"No," said Cole firmly. "You are the Herald. You ruined his grand plan and now he is angry." His youthful face them twisted, one side curling up into a sneer that was _disturbingly_ like the distant expression she'd seen on that _thing_ outside. "Break the elf they have risen up and they will fall. Break _her_ and they have _nothing._ Break the Herald. Break the pretender." Then he shook himself, eyes wider than ever, and softly finished, "I don't like him."

"You don't _like him?_ " exploded Cullen for a moment then he calmed himself, his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscles in his neck and cheeks straining. Then he looked at her and his eyes softened _a fraction_. "There are no tactics that make this survivable. Causing one last slide..."

"Burying Haven," she interjected with a calm she didn't feel at _all_.

He just nodded before responding with, "We're dying, but _we_ can decide how. There are many already tonight who haven't gotten that choice."

Denial of that statement wanted to spill from Meryell's lips but she knew the score as well as he did. The Chantry was a dead end and the only thing they could do from this point was to make the bastards work for it.

" _Not_ the only thing," came Cole's voice, light and oddly ethereal. She turned to look at the boy and he was standing behind Roderick, holding the man upright in the chair with a gentle grip on his shoulders. As his eyes caught hers, he smiled and said, "I told you he has something to say."

"Chancellor?" questioned Cullen as Meryell took a tentative step forward. The man's head lolled on his shoulders in response and he coughed before nodding several times.

"There...there is a path," he managed to say, the pain obvious in his voice. "You wouldn't know it unless you'd made the summer pilgrimage as I have. The people..." Roderick shifted in his seat, pressing his hand more firmly down on the wound in his gut, before he slowly rose to his feet with the aid of Cole. His eyes were feverish as he sought Meryell's and she flinched a little at his next words. "The people can escape. _She_ must have shown me. An-Andraste must have shown me so I could...tell you. If this simple memory can save us, _this_ could be more than mere accident. _You_ could be more."

Ignoring the last words about a being she didn't even believe in and the title she'd never fucking wanted, she caught onto what he was talking about. There was a secret passage that could be used to enable everyone else to escape. Everyone but _her_.

Someone had to stay back as a distraction and to fire the trebuchet. And whatever that _thing_ out there was, it wanted _her_.

Abruptly her jaw clenched involuntarily, teeth grinding, and Meryell felt fear start to rise up inside her as she tasted bile on the back of her throat. This was no simple mission for the company, not one to take flippantly and handle with ease. It wasn't even one of the ones that was rife with danger, that were treated with utmost seriousness until they were done and over and could be safely joked about.

She was going to fucking walk out there and _face_ that thing.

To save _them_.

Fighting the fear rising up, she growled between bared teeth, "Cullen, get them out." She caught his jerk of surprise out of the corner of her eye and Andraste's dripping cunt she _hated it_. He'd stayed the Commander from the start of the attack until now and she _needed_ him to keep that mantle on. He couldn't be the Cullen who sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the tavern with her or the one who brought alcohol to her cabin for late night talks or the one who made her feel like a good man _could_ love a knife-eared alienage brat. _She_ needed him to be the Commander.

"Cullen," she began but then he was dragging her away from Roderick and Cole, his hands on her shoulders as he hauled her over to one empty corner of the Chantry. Meryell tried to resist, to dig in her heels, but found that she didn't really _want to_.

If this...if this was going to be the last moment she spent with the man...

Closing her eyes in a furious attempt to hold back the tears suddenly threatening to fall, she reached out for something to hold on to. Her hands found his armored forearms, the metal icy against the fingers exposed by her half-gloves, and she felt the edge of the flames that framed the Sword of Mercy stamped into their surface.

" _Meryell_ ," he breathed, his voice low and broken. "You _cannot_..."

"Everyone _dies_ if I don't," she hissed back, shuddering helplessly. In the back of her mind she knew that this was the last thing they should be doing right now - they _should_ be strategizing the escape, _should_ be figuring out who would help her with the trebuchet - and not...this.

She didn't honestly know if she could bear the goodbye.

"I..." His voice cracked then. Cracked like he was a _youth_ on the cusp of manhood, and that was when she opened her eyes. Cullen was half bent over in front of her, his hands on her shoulders the only thing that seemed to be holding him up as he bowed his head and _shook._ The tears welled at the sight and she blinked furiously against them before finally surrendering to the inevitable as he lifted his head to look at her, his own eyes half-blinded by moisture. "The Maker _cannot_ bring you to me and then take you away," he breathed. "He cannot be so cruel twice in one lifetime."

Meryell realized distantly that he was talking about Kath Surana, the mage he'd cared for in the Tower. She was one of the few things he'd shared from that time. _One of the only good memories_ , he constantly said. Then she jumped, startled, as he was pushing her backwards into the closest wall. His hands moved from her shoulders to her hips and abruptly she was in the air, her toes no longer able to even touch the ground as he lifted her up before he used his whole body to press her against the wall. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around him and dug her fingers into his mantle now that his arms had moved from underneath her grasp.

" _Cullen..._ " she gasped but he shook his head, both hands coming up to frame her face as he no longer needed them to hold her.

"You _will_ come back," he said insistently. She started to shake her head but his grip stilled the motion, forcing it to die stillborn. " _No._ Do _not_ give up, Meryell. I...I should not have given up at the gate. You tried to tell me that. Do not give up now. Please. _Please._ "

He leaned forward so his forehead rested against hers and let out an unsteady breath as he murmured, "I _need_ you, Meryell. _Please._ "

She could not leave him like this. The Inquisition needed its Commander. And if...if it required her to _lie_...then so be it.

Taking a deep breath, Meryell untangled her fingers from his mantle and brought her hands up to his face. She ran her fingertips along the stubble of his jaw, heart jumping with his surprised intake of breath, and then cupped his cheeks in her hands. After that, with their foreheads already pressed together, all it took was a simple tilt of her neck to bring her lips in line with his.

His lips were chapped from the cold air outside but they radiated as much warmth as the rest of him. On the outside they tasted like cold, like smoke, like steel, and she felt the impulsive urge to taste his mouth if only for a moment. If _this_ was to be the last, then she would know what she could never have again.

Meryell opened her mouth testingly, kissing his lips once, twice, in that way before his opened in turn. She dipped her tongue within and tasted the tavern's stew and her favorite whiskey and the warm cinnamon of Demut's apple bread that they'd been sharing in a quiet corner before this night had gone to absolute _shit_. And there was a flavor and a _smell_ there that was all Cullen, warm and masculine.

It was a slow kiss, an exploratory first as well as a cementing of the other into memory. And all it made her want was _more._

When they finally pulled away from each other, Meryell felt her surety waver as he breathed, " _Come back to me, dear thief._ "

Her thumb found the scar on his lip - the scar whose story she still hadn't yet heard - and his amber eyes seemed to reach down into her for an answer that she was powerless to resist despite everything within her screaming that she absolutely _should not_ give it.

" _I will, vhen'an'ara_ ," she whispered brokenly.

Was it a lie to make him feel better, to make him retake the mantle of Commander and lead?

Or was it a truth that she _almost_ found herself fucking believing in?

Meryell didn't have another moment to decide as the Chantry shook from an impact that could only be the dragon and suddenly her feet were back on the floor. Not bothering to wipe her tears away as she bolted back into the center of the room, she shouted, "I need volunteers to help me with the last trebuchet!"

Dorian was abruptly at her side, still disheveled but grinning down at her as he said, "A last ditch effort to save us, darling?"

"Last ditch is probably the best way to describe this fucking plan, yeah. You don't have..."

"Ah-ah! It is not our first seemingly impossible mission, now is it? Come now, we'll go over there and be back in moments. Don't worry so much, dear."

Meryell couldn't help but smile despite the fact that she could taste the lie in his words and touched his arm gently. "Thank you, Dorian," she breathed.

"I'm with you too, sweetheart." Varric wrapped a steadying arm around her waist and she leaned gratefully against the dwarf's sturdy frame. "I've got your back, Swears."

"As do I," proclaimed Cassandra as she strode up with the same fierce determination she showed on the field. Meryell then watched as the warrior turned to Cullen and said, "Commander, you will see everyone to safety?" Her eyes flicked immediately to his face and found him watching _her_ without even bothering to look at the other woman.

"Yes," he replied, back under control. Back to being the Commander. “We'll fire a signal once we're clear.”

As with her, no one made a comment about the redness of his eyes or the obvious tear tracks on his face that he didn't bother to wipe away.

The Chantry shook again, harder this time, and she abruptly stepped forward towards him to take his hands in her own. As he blinked down at her, she said firmly, "Take care of Folke. He...he will fight you. He will try to come after me."

Cullen's confusion cleared then and determination settled over his face. She'd given him two tasks now: get their people to safety and make sure her father stayed alive. She knew he wouldn't let her down in either if he could help it.

"Remind him," she added, her voice breaking abruptly as her emotions skittered out of her control. "Remind him of my charm. Remind him to look." She'd told him long ago about the variety of charms that the company had used for as long as she recalled to identify their members and keep track of them. Folke was the genius behind the things and the architect of every single coin or fang or belt buckle or whatever that each Fang chose to use as their token. Her original had been lost or broken during her time in the Fade that she couldn't recall (at least that was her assumption as that was what had made everyone think she was dead) and one of her father's first orders of business had been crafting a new one out of an ancient Ferelden coin that he had in his possession.

"I will," he promised. Then he blinked, his calm exterior nearly disintegrating entirely before he dragged it back up, as he said, "Be safe."

Unable to reply past the sudden lump in her throat, Meryell just nodded and turned towards the Chantry doors. Two of the soldiers lifted the bar that secured it closed and she drew her daggers with only a slight tug as Cassandra stepped in front of her with her shield at the ready. At the same time from behind them, she heard Folke's voice call out unsurely, " _Ara vherain?_ "

Resisting the urge to reply, Meryell clenched her jaw and crouched, ready to move forward as soon as Cassandra did.

"Meryell! _Meryell!_ "

Folke's voice was breaking and with it her heart. He had already thought her dead once and now...now she was willingly going to what was probably actually going to be it.

" _NO!_ "

The Chantry doors were open then and Cassandra bolted out with a shout meant to distract whatever was waiting for them on the other side. As Meryell followed, she dared a glance back and met her father's eyes around Cullen's shoulder as the younger man held him back from reaching her.

" _Ir_ _abelas, baba_ ," she breathed before she jerked her gaze away.

And then she ran, feet pounding into the snow as she followed Cassandra through the enemies that had invaded Haven as the Seeker made a determined path. She could barely hear their inhuman growls or the still raging fires or her own harsh breathing in her ears.

Folke's bellow, his attempt to negate what he was seeing, rang through her ears in a terrible echo.

She was a fucking terrible daughter.

“Get the trebuchet ready!” commanded the older woman when they finally reached it, her shield catching one of the soldiers who guarded it in the teeth with a shattering crunch. Meryell moved automatically, sheathing her daggers in one smooth motion without a second thought to the fact that she probably wouldn't be able to draw them again before she threw her weight against the wheel.

It seemed like the trebuchet moved in slow motion, as if it were taunting them in their last ditch effort to make sure _someone_ survived this fucking shit storm. She screamed at it, throwing out every curse she knew in one endless stream while she listened to her companions, her _friends_ , fight for their lives and those who were working even now to escape Haven. When the wheel finally clicked into place where it needed to be, Meryell jerked her head skyward at that now familiar screech.

“Move!” she shouted as she leapt from the platform, waving her arms frantically at the others. If they weren't near it, maybe they could save the trebuchet, could still get a chance to fire. If they didn't, they were all _fucked_. “Go, _go!_ ”

They raced ahead of her, none of them looking back, and she watched them keep going as an explosion from behind her - more damned _fire_ _pots_ going off - blew her off of her feet. She hit the ground hard and rolled before coming to a stop braced on her forearms with her face nearly buried in muddy snow-water.

_Get. Up._

Pushing herself to her feet, Meryell had enough time to turn and _see_ the monstrosity from the hill coming at her out of the flames from the pots and the dragon before her arm was wrenched upward into the air along with her body. She barely registered the dragon landing hard behind her, cutting off that route of escape or rescue, as she focused on the thing’s hideous face.

It was - _had been_ \- a man once. Spikes of red lyrium burst out of his face, mostly on the side that wasn't covered by the remnant of a dark hood except where one curved out from the line of his jaw on that other side. He had armor on his body but it was less like he wore it and more like it was _part_ of him. And he was tall, almost _insanely_ fucking tall, far taller than even the Iron Bull but it was like he'd been _stretched_ more than being that way naturally.

“Pretender,” he growled in a booming voice as she dangled by one arm. “You toy with forces beyond your ken. _No more_.”

Meryell grimaced as she felt the weight of her body already wrenching her left shoulder out of socket, the muscles straining to stay where they were supposed to be. Too long in this position and it might never recover its full mobility.

“What the _fucking fuck_ are you?” she spat in response.

“I am the _will_ that is Corypheus,” replied the thing. He then lifted his other skeletal arm into her vision, revealing a metallic orb with intricate carvings across every surface in his other grotesque hand. “I am here for the Anchor. The process of removing it begins now.”

“The _what?_ ” exploded Meryell before her marked hand _exploded_ into absolute agony, her fingers spamming wildly. Yet she had felt this pain before: the pain that made it feel like her hand was splitting open, like fire was in her veins. It had been exactly like this in the future and she bared her teeth in a grimace to fight crying out like she had then when they tumbled into that timeline.

“It is _your_ fault that I am here, ‘Herald’. You interrupted a ritual years in the planning and, instead of _dying_ , you stole its _purpose_.”

Her hand _burned_ , the green glow becoming even brighter, and she groaned behind her teeth - the only sound she was determined to make.

“I do not know how you survived,” said the thing, “but what you flail so ineffectually at rifts, I constructed to _assault the very heavens._ And _you_ used the Anchor to undo _my_ work! _The gall!_ ”

Meryell was _barely_ listening as _red light_ like that that flickered and pulsed around the orb he held burst from the gash that wasn't a gash on her palm. She was _burning_ , her whole arm afire thanks to both the position she was hanging in and whatever he was doing to the mark. A howl of pain rose up in her throat and she just barely - _barely_ \- fought it down, keeping it contained within her. Her mind was a haze of agony but she managed to snarl, “What the _fuck_ do you _want?_ What _is_ this damned thing?”

He sneered, lip curling in a starkly human gesture, before replying, “It is meant to bring certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I would always come for it.” It _shook_ her then and Meryell was unable to stop the scream that tore its way out of her throat as she felt something _tear_ in her shoulder. As her cry faded away into heavy, frantic breathing that was edging towards panicked, the thing lifted her up to where their faces were level. “I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the Empire _in person_ ,” he went on. “I found only chaos and confusion amongst dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused but _no_ _more_.”

Despite the fact that she didn't believe, she knew the stories the Chantry told. Her mother had told them to her, reciting them with the same gravity that she had the Chant every morning and night.

This _thing_ that called itself Corypheus claimed to be one of the Magisters that had broken open the Fade and sundered the Maker's seat in the Golden City.

 _One of the first darkspawn_ _was holding her aloft by her arm like she weighed nothing._

“I gathered the _will_ to return under no name but my own,” it continued, “to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world. _Beg_ that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was _empty_.”

“Good,” growled Meryell, realizing as she spoke that her lungs were straining, weakened by her position as much as her shoulder. “Never believed in the Maker anyway.” She then spat what liquid was in her dry mouth at the thing’s face and added with a snarl, “And I sure as _shit_ don't believe in _you_.”

Her spittle didn't seem to bother the thing one bit but her _words_ hit some sort of mark. That hideous face twisted into a sneer and then she was flying through the air, all breath leaving her lungs from the further feeling of tearing in her shoulder and down the left side of her back. She didn't even have enough air left to gasp or cry out in pain as she smacked hard into the supports of the trebuchet before falling to her knees on its platform. Meryell sucked air in in long, shuddering gasps and managed to pull herself upright with one arm because she _had to_. Before this thing stole the opportunity it had given her.

“The Anchor is permanent,” he announced as he slowly approached, the damned dragon pacing behind him. “You have spoiled it with your stumbling.”

Wheezing for a moment, she spat towards him again weakly before baring her teeth in a smile. “ _Fuck_ _off, gasbag._ ”

The thing didn't even acknowledge her words, seeming like it was speaking aloud to _itself_ more than _her_ now.

“So be it. I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation - and _god -_ it requires.”

Over his shoulder she saw the flare then, a flaming arrow rising high in an arch from further up the mountain. Her breath caught, her body shook, and she closed her eyes for a bare moment to accept that she might not make it.

Then Meryell opened her eyes as she heard the thing speak about him not allowing a rival to live and snarled, “You arrogant _fuck_. You think I'm here to stop _you?_ ” For once he looked surprised and she continued fiercely, “I'm here to save _them_ , asshole.”

She then turned to kick out at the locked wheel that held the firing mechanism, setting it loose as she shouted, “ _Dhava_ ‘ _ma masa!_ ”

And then she ran.

Meryell ran like she was back in South Reach outrunning the Guard despite there being _nowhere to go_. She wasn't going to let _that thing_ have her corpse though. Her body was _hers_ and fuck anyone that thought they could have it even in death.

Leaping from a gap formed in the fence on the raised section of land where the trebuchet stood, she expected to land on snow but instead hit creaking wood and froze. _The mine._ Cullen had told her about it once, about how they intended to investigate the ancient shafts eventually once they got extra fresh wood to make needed repairs.

 _Oh no_.

The wood underneath her feet gave way and Meryell was unable to help the scream she uttered as she fell, reaching back towards the frozen, fire-licked sky before darkness fell as the landslide hit.

A moment later she hit the ground and the darkness took her as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven/Elvhen Translations:**  
>  eth - safe  
> din telsilen - no worries  
> Dhava ‘ma masa - Kiss my ass


	18. "Maker's breath, just what am I doing?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Meryell returns to them half broken with her body wracked with frostbite and Cullen gets a glimpse of just how deeply he's come to care for her in the wake of nearly losing her.

_She's so cold._

Shivering and frostbitten with snow plastered to the leather of her armor, the fabric of her pants so stiff with ice that it's a wonder she managed to keep going...but she is _alive._ Cullen tightened his grip around Meryell as Cassandra reached towards her, refusing to relinquish her if he was asked to, but the Seeker only gently touched a snow covered shoulder before she began snapping out orders to those that followed them away from the edge of their final camp for the night.

"Folke," he managed to growl as they made their way back through the snow, trying to ignore the way she shuddered in his arms. The mage had barely been gone an hour after so many spent standing at the edge of camp, muttering under his breath and casting one spell after another until even Cullen could feel him pulling only dregs from the Fade, having being dragged off forcefully by one of the Fangs’ elves and he knew _he_ needed to see Meryell more than he himself had. Cassandra turned her head towards him, her eyes wide, and she gave one quick sharp nod before she was gone from his side.

Cullen paid her no heed after that, his attention set upon one of the two larger tents they had which had been set up for the sole use of the healers and the injured. As he ducked inside with Meryell in his arms it was like the whole world stopped for a moment. Then one of the mages - who was a Fang given the black lion tooth that hung from around her neck on a thick leather cord, one of the many varieties of badges that the company had - stepped forward barking orders. She set the rest to the task of getting a bed ready or scuttling off to see to the same things that Cassandra had sent folk running for before slowly approaching him.

"Commander," she said softly, "I'm Gil."

The name rang a bell in his head but it wasn't important enough to distract from the woman in his arms.

"Where?" he asked, assuming she knew what he meant. He was a Fereldan despite not having been home for over a decade and they had a saying that a true Ferelden winter laid permanent frostbite onto the souls that survived it. One of the first things they needed to do what get her free of her clothes and armor.

Gil gestured at a nearby cot that was free of any sort of bedding and he swiftly moved to it, carefully lowering Meryell down. She made a noise in her throat, a bare and broken _whine_ that cut him to the core, and he immediately jerked off his gloves to start pulling at the frozen buckles of her weapons and armor. To his surprise, Gil merely took his aid in stride and worked in concert with him, her magic humming against what was left of his senses as she cast several spells over Meryell's body. For once, he didn't mind magic being cast in such close proximity to him.

By the time they got down to Meryell's boots - he removing them inch by careful inch while Gil worked low-level warming spells into the elf's flesh - Folke burst into the tent. The mage's grey eyes were wild with dark bags underneath them and he was in full disarray, utterly missing his coat and armor and wearing only a light tunic that couldn't possibly be keeping him warm. " _Ara vherain_ ," he breathed and started to rush forward only to be drawn up short by Gil snapping out his name in as sharp a tone any of Cullen's lieutenants.

"Calm," ordered the woman, never moving her eyes from where her hands were carefully working over Meryell's right ankle to free it from her boot. Folke stared at her, his nostrils flaring, then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Cullen watched the mage center himself while he waited for Gil to finish her work and only looked away when she nudged him with her shoulder.

As he eased her boot off, finally freeing her from the last of her outer clothing, Cullen couldn't help the gasp that escaped him as the mage next to him carefully removed one of Meryell's socks. Frostbite had done its heinous work upon her toes, turning them as white as the snow with cold blue blemishes, but Gil merely flicked her fingers at him, saying, "It looks worse than it is, Commander. Trust me. I've healed more than my fair share of frostbite from a Ferelden winter."

She bent over her patient's feet again as she said, "Get her out of the rest of those freezing clothes, gentlemen. And I mean _all of them_. Be _careful_ with her left shoulder, though. I've repaired some of the damage but it's going to need a lot more work than I can give it tonight. Frostbite and heat are our priorities right now.”

Cullen froze for a moment at the thought of Meryell naked but it was swiftly drowned underneath the seriousness of the situation. He stepped forward at the same moment Folke did and they quickly did as Gil had ordered, tossing the frozen clothing on top of the pile of armor and other gear. Then he heard the mage say he should probably leave and clenched his jaw around an immediate and furious _no_.

"Gil," spoke up Folke, his eyes narrowed, "let the Commander stay. We can use him."

After the cold shoulder the mage had given him after he'd held Folke back from following Meryell out of the Chantry, Cullen was more than a little surprised at the statement. He'd been certain the hedge mage wouldn't want him anywhere near his daughter again.

She frowned, her brow furrowed, and turned to look at him. Her eyes gave Cullen an appraising glance - but it was the appraisement of a healer, not the lecherous sort of appraisement that he was often the victim of nowadays - and then she turned to arch her eyebrows at her fellow mage. "You sure you want him in bed with your daughter?" she asked, setting Cullen's cheeks aflame with embarrassment.

Folke just chuckled in response, saying, "He's already said he's hers, Gil. She's as good as claimed him herself, though not in so many words."

Idly he thought that the mage probably wouldn't be saying that if he'd witnessed their parting in the Chantry. That kiss had...no, best not to think of how many things it had both said and left unsaid.

"Well then. You'd best strip yourself, Commander." She then winked as she added, "Though _you_ can keep your under things on. Our Meryell tends to not appreciate others lusting too much after her things."

" _Maker's breath_ ," muttered Cullen, wondering what exactly was wrong with all of the women around him. He then turned to look at Folke, asking, "Just what am I _doing?_ "

When Folke went so far as to step around Gil, who was still working her magic on Meryell's feet, and Solas, who had appeared like a ghost to pick up one of the elf's hands to let his magic flicker over the half-frozen digits, Cullen had a bad feeling. The mage looked up at him with serious grey eyes for a moment then drew him a few steps away from the others and those who were still on the far most secluded side of the tent making up a cot piled high with furs.

"As I'm certain you've noticed, Commander," the mage began in a low, tight voice, "the effort of your body burning off the lingering lyrium in your system makes you run hot. Certainly hotter than any of us in camp except for maybe that Qunari." When Cullen nodded tightly in confirmation, Folke continued, "Magic can heal her frostbite but Meryell still needs heat to re-regulate her body temperature. Honest heat because magic can't do it on it's own, which is why Gil cast only a minor heating charm on her core and even lesser ones on her limbs. Magic can get her to a recoverable level but _you_ can help bring her past that."

The thought of all of her skin bare against his had Cullen's pulse jumping and he closed his eyes, shaking his head against the images that summoned. There was no place for _that_ sort of thing in their current situation.

When he reopened his eyes, Folke was smirking at him.

"Time to get naked, Commander. Once Gil and Chuckles there get done with their work, we need to get her into the bed. With you."

 _That_ made his cock twitch and Cullen growled, "You're _enjoying_ torturing me a little too much, Folke."

"Oh, _isha'len_ , if you're going to eventually be part of the family then you've got to get used to that."

He narrowed his eyes at the mage, wondering what that particular word meant while trying not to blush at the rest of the sentence, then rolled his eyes skyward to ask the Maker for strength. Then he quickly unbuckled his belt before unfastening his coat and shrugged out of it, handing it over to Folke, who was still standing next to him. As his hands mechanically went through the familiar ritual of unbuckling his armor, Cullen focused on that and not the idea of lying in a cot with Meryell. He sat each piece carefully down on the ground next to him and by the time his last bracer was placed there, Gil was calling over that they were ready.

Glancing at Folke, Cullen flushed as the mage waggled his eyebrows at him before he tugged both his padded gambeson and tunic over his head in one motion. The rush of cold air across his skin was all too soothing for a moment but he knew full well that it would do little to actually affect him other than giving him eventual frostbite if he wasn't careful. He'd had the full warning to not be an idiot by the one healer that the Gallows had left after Meredith (who'd thankfully seen at least _one_ templar attempt to break from lyrium) and never assume that he wasn't cold just because he didn't necessarily feel it and he'd taken that to heart.

"Commander, help us move her," called Gil and he strode over as he let the fabric drop on top of his armor. Gil and Folke had Meryell's legs carefully lifted between them with the stronger mage still working gently swirling spells over the elf's feet and he moved to lift the rest of her easily into his arms. They carried her across the space of the tent to the made-up cot and lay her carefully down onto the furs that had been used to cover the canvas bedding.

Cullen stepped back with a frown as she was settled, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth as it certainly didn't _look_ like he'd fit there with her, then jumped at a light strike on his arm. He turned his head to blink down at Gil, who was glaring up at him.

"You either get in that cot, boy," she growled, "or I'll go find that Qunari. I'm sure he'd be more than _happy_ to be _completely naked_ next to his boss."

Bristling at the thought of the Iron Bull climbing into bed with _her_ , Cullen stared right at the mage, not at all surprised that she'd followed the same line of thought as Folke had. He continued to deliberately stare at her as he stepped out of his boots and shucked off his pants, furiously trying not to blush and failing _miserably_. Now Gil _did_ give him one of those lecherous appraising looks before she laughed and gestured him towards the cot as she turned to head back to the rest of her patients.

He started to call after her, to ask if Meryell didn't need more spells, then stopped himself. Instead he moved around the cot to climb in behind her, focusing as he'd been taught to feel out magic as a way to distract himself as he did so. He barely acknowledged the feel of her bare skin sliding against his or the cold that still radiated out from her as he concentrated. It took much longer than it would have months ago when he was still taking a lyrium ration but his senses did eventually waver into existence and stretch out. In a situation like earlier with a mage casting right next to him, he could easily still get a sense of their power. After a while, however, that faded and he had to work to reach out and test whether a spell was still ongoing.

Satisfied as he found that there was still magic working on healing Meryell, Cullen let out a relieved sigh. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin when Folke said, "You look very distracted for a man who just climbed into bed with a naked woman."

"You delight in sneaking up on people, don't you?" groused Cullen as he wrapped an arm around Meryell, letting his focus fade away along with the sense of the magic at work under her skin. Drawing her back against his chest, he bit back the groan that begged for release as he felt her skin against his and wished _desperately_ that this was being done in better circumstances.

Not in a healer's tent.

With Meryell _very_ much conscious and aware of the proceedings.

Folke snorted and moved forward to tug the pile of furs at the end of the cot over them, tucking the ends firmly around Meryell's face before he cupped her cheek. He then smiled and replied, "Only because you make it so easy, Commander." The mage then sobered, his mouth drawing downward into a deep frown that made the man suddenly look his age and more while causing the scar on his cheek to stand out starkly. "Watch over her for me, Commander. I...I forgive your actions earlier because I know she asked you not to let me follow. _That_ is a conversation I will have with her later."

"You have my word." He wasn't going to say he was sorry for stopping him. She had asked him to protect her father and he hadn't been about to forsake what might have possibly been the last thing she'd ever asked of him.

" _'Ma serannas_ ," breathed the mage before he leaned forward and kissed Meryell's forehead. " _Son era, ara vherain._ "

The first words Cullen didn't know as he hadn't heard Meryell say them but she had explained what the others meant. Before Folke could turn and walk away, he said, " _Son err-ah_ , Folke," well aware that his pronunciation of the words wasn't anywhere near as good as the mage's or Meryell's. But the _look_ on the man's face when he looked at him, the abrupt loosening of tension in his shoulders and the way he smiled easily for the first time since Cullen had spotted him during their interrupted celebrations, that made up for any way he might have said it wrong.

Folke just nodded to him then and was gone, leaving Cullen alone with Meryell on the now mostly empty side of the healer's tent.

He lifted his head for a moment to watch them going about their work, then sighed as he let it fall back to rest against the furs. Meryell then shivered, her whole body shuddering against his own, and he didn't even try to fight the reaction it caused. Instead he plainly ignored it as he drew her even more firmly back against his chest and tucked his knees up underneath hers as best he could with their height difference. Already he could feel the heat building around them as the heavy furs were keeping in the heat he put off and knew it was going to get _oppressive_.

For her, though, he'd suffer.

Leaning his head against hers, Cullen pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her neck, murmuring two lines of Transfigurations that suddenly flared through his mind.

" _Unshaken by the darkness of the world_ ," he quoted softly into her skin, closing his eyes as her still somewhat damp hair tickled his nose, " _She shall know true peace._ "

He could only pray that, upon Meryell waking, such would be true.

As the words left him, Cullen finally felt the iron control he'd held himself under for so long waver. He'd lost all of his composure in the Chantry hours ago and no one had said a damned thing but he'd still felt shameful for it. In Haven’s need, he'd cast aside concerns about the health and safety for the people for one's focused solely on the woman in his arms. And not merely for what she was to the Inquisition, it was for what she was to _him._

She'd made him finally start to believe that someone could care about him. Could see him as more than a _sword._ Could...perhaps...love him. And he'd almost _lost her_.

He would have carried on probably. Shouldering burdens and moving forward was practically his _job_ given how many times he'd done it over the years.

Yet, he would have been a shadow of himself if she hadn't limped out of the snow as he stood there between Cole as the boy recited _cold, so cold, look for light, look for warmth, look for him_ and Cassandra as she spoke the Chant under her breath. He hadn't _dared_ pray then, for fear that if he did there would be no answer.

Meryell Verlen had imprinted herself on his _soul_. She had changed him just as surely as lyrium had, as Kinloch, as Kirkwall. Only her changes were for the _better_.

Cullen felt his shoulders shake involuntarily and then the lump of a sob tightened his throat. Tears blurred his eyes a moment later and he closed them before burying his face against the back of her neck, remembering last minute to avoid her injured left shoulder. His whole body shook as he breathed in and out in great shuddering gasps, her scent so strong in his nose the only thing that kept him silent.

He hadn't felt like this since he'd found Kath’s body in the Tower. Only now...now he could _feel_ the grief as well as the relief. Now he did not have to be the stalwart templar, the rule-abiding Knight-Captain, or the Commander of the Inquisition.

He could be just _Cullen_ in this moment and there was no one to judge him for it.

So he laid there, shaking and shuddering with silent sobs until he was finally - _blessedly_ \- drained of energy. Sinking deeper into the cot, Cullen pulled Meryell as close as he could, and let out a long breath across the back of her neck.

“Thank you,” he murmured aloud as he felt sleep rising up in a wave to crash down on top of him to drag him into the Fade.

“Thank you for not taking her from me.”


	19. “He did this. That fucking thing was responsible for the Conclave, for the rifts, for this shit on my hand, for stealing my damned life...all of it.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After much stress and fussing over her as well as a lot of arguing about whether she's strong enough, Meryell finally convinces everyone that they need to have a meeting to discuss what has happened. It doesn't quite go as well as planned but it's not an utter shit show (in her opinion, anyway).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as my roommate just reminded me at just past midnight, I missed my Monday posting. We recently got back into World of Warcraft in the past month and (as per usual) it acts like the crack it is and devours my soul sometimes.

It had taken a day after she'd woken up to the pleasant surprise of a mostly naked Cullen crammed into a cot with her (followed by the fucking annoying realization that she was too hurt to do _fuck all_ about it) to convince everyone that they _had_ to have a meeting. She'd actually tried to do so in the first hours after she'd woken up but exhaustion from both her long walk in the snow and what her healing body was taking out of her had conspired to coax her back into sleep.

Cullen's sleepy kisses to the back of her neck coupled with the warmth of him and the strong, secure, _safe_ loop of his arms around her waist had been a good incentive too.

Now, after spending several hours awake arguing with Folke, Cullen, Cassandra, and everyone else who'd come into the tent to see her, she'd finally convinced them to have a meeting. Mostly by trying to get out of bed (which would have been much harder if Cullen hadn't been kicked out by Gil after she'd been deemed back in a safe zone temperature wise) and walk despite the fact that her feet were still five kinds of fucked up from frostbite. That and Gil had threatened bodily harm to the next person that made Meryell nearly fuck up what healing she'd already gotten, herself included.

Which is what led to a trestle table being carried into the isolated side of the healer's tent that she occupied with camp chairs or crates scavenged from other parts of the camp for anyone who wanted one. Meryell herself had been carefully slid down to the end of her cot and propped up with two pillows behind her back after being carefully bundled into a long-sleeved tunic that smelled like Folke and a _hideous_ fur lined coat that someone had found in the assorted belongings that had made it out of Haven.

She also had Cullen perched behind her on a crate he'd moved right up against the head of the cot. His knees sat on either side of the wooden bars supporting it and he had both arms looped around her waist as he rested his chin on her good shoulder. _A precaution_ , he'd muttered in her ear after he had settled there.

She half blamed Gil. The other half of the equation was him being _him_.

What she hated was the fact that the position made her all too aware of the fine shakes plaguing his hands and she was unable to do anything to help him. Meryell did make a mental note to tell him to ask Folke if there were supplies in camp for the tea. Or, given the scolding she'd gotten earlier from her _baba_ about making him fear losing her for good, ask Gil if any of her potions made it out of camp in the chaos.

Everyone invited to the meeting - which was the whole of the inner circle with an extended invitation to Arnald and Zarru (since they led the Fangs), Folke (purely because he was her father), and Krem (since he was Bull’s second) - slowly trickled into the tent and she traced nonsense patterns over the backs of Cullen's hands underneath the furs until the space filled up. He stilled her movement himself and pressed a brief kiss to her cheek before he straightened, though his arms never ceased encircling her. It was enough to keep contact (and keep his tremors from being seen) but still give the separation of Herald and Commander that they at least _attempted_ to maintain in the war room.

“All here?” asked Meryell as she flicked her eyes over the group. Varric, Josephine, and Dorian had taken up seats around the table and the rest had scattered around the area. Cassandra and Leliana stood at either side of the invisible boundary line that seemed to lay between her space and the rest of the tent, two almost starkly silent sentinels that seemed to be back to the strangers they’d been in those first hours in Haven. The Iron Bull stood between the former Right and Left Hands, as it was the only place he _could_ without his horns puncturing the top of the tent, and Krem had settled next to the Qunari in the easy, loose stance of a warrior at rest.

Blackwall stood against the tent wall to her left, just down from Cassandra, and had an empty camp chair standing ready at his feet in case he wanted it. Solas had seated himself just down of the Warden, closer to her but not _too_ close, and Meryell wasn’t certain she wanted to decipher the look on his face.

On her right, Sera sat on a crate tapping one foot against the ground, idly spinning a small knife back and forth around her fingers. Immediately next to her Arnald took up one of the last chairs, leaning on his elbows towards her, his brow creased with worry over the top of his mask. Zarru stood silently behind him, dressed in simple dark clothes meant for warmth instead of her normal armor.

Folke, of course, had the very last camp chair and he’d pulled it up right next to her cot on her right side. She could see his knee butting against Cullen’s but neither man seemed to mind, which confirmed to her a little more that Folke’s earlier comment in the day about not having hard feelings against the man for his actions in Haven was truth.

“It would seem we are,” commented Josephine. Then she looked around, frowning as she asked, “Though...was there not a boy?”

“Cole?” Varric queried and Meryell stiffened slightly as she felt weight press against the side of her leg just above her knee. Looking down, she found the strange boy sitting on the floor there, his hat no longer present to hide the veritable bird’s nest that was his fine blond hair. He blinked those big blue eyes at her and smiled childishly.

“ _Savhalla, as’ehn’rajast,_ ” he uttered softly and she blinked at him for a moment before tearing her eyes away from him. She was no mage but he sure as _shit_ wasn't human.

“Accounted for,” announced Meryell, though by the looks on most everyone else's faces they didn't see him. Solas did - he was looking right at the boy - as did Dorian by the sudden tensing of his shoulders. Folke's hand gripped hers underneath the blanket then and she glanced over at him as Cullen hissed in surprise behind her, starting to move before she clapped her left hand over his. “He's not a threat,” she announced, drawing confused looks from those who were unaware of Cole and surprise from those that actually noticed him.

Solas leaned forward at that, his fingers folded together, and asked, “Have you some magical power you haven't disclosed, _da’len_?”

That made Folke snort and she felt his hand relax in hers. Cullen's hand was still tense under hers and she squeezed it tightly as her father commented, “Only her good sense of people. S’how she knew she needed to save mine and Tobik’s asses when we met.”

“I did tell you not to trust Old Karlan,” reminded Meryell as she stroked her thumb across the inside curve of Cullen's hand. As he finally relaxed, expelling a breath hard enough to tickle her ear, she added, “That fucker was always looking for an excuse to make money.”

Before they could get caught up in the past, she quickly went on, “Now...we need to go over Haven. _Everything_.”

“We have yet to gather all of the names of the lost,” Cullen noted from behind her. “Until we get better organized or find somewhere else to go, we likely won’t know the full counts for the Inquisition forces.”

“Chargers lost five so far that we know of,” chimed in Krem.

Zarru dipped her head slightly, her eyes flicking down at the back of Arnald’s head, before she uttered thickly, “Twenty-three confirmed amongst the Fangs. Folke confirmed this morning that their charms no longer sing to him. Though given we thought our Meryell dead once too, there may still be hope for some of them. Six more are unaccounted for but still sing.”

“Sing?” repeated Sera, eying Folke from where she sat. “Whot’s that mean?”

“It means,” her father replied as he lifted his free hand to grasp the old coin that hung around his own neck, “that that’s how the magic works. Templars track mages through blood magic; I track each member of the Fangs with my own magic. It’s significantly more complicated, of course, and is one of the two specializations that I actually have.”

“Impressive for a _da’erelan_ ,” commented Solas.

Folke just smiled at that and inclined his head respectfully to the other mage. Thankfully that comment didn't segue into a magical theory conversation and Meryell smiled at her father for that small mercy before steering the conversation back to the main topic.

“As important as the names of the dead are,” she began, “there's a lot more going on than any of us know. That thing on the hill, the Elder One...he claims to be one of the Magisters who went into the Fade.”

Cassandra and Leliana stiffened at the same time while Dorian exclaimed, “One of the first darkspawn? Are you certain?”

Meryell looked right at the mage and replied, “That was his claim while he fucking had me dangling off the ground.”

“ _That’s_ what happened to your shoulder?” asked Cullen.

“Yeah. I'm probably not going to be using my daggers in both hands for a while.” _If ever_ , she added silently to herself but quickly pushed the thought away. Gil kept telling her that the damage wasn't irreparable and she trusted her. Meryell then coughed to distract herself from those thoughts and said to everyone, “Fuck. Let me start at the beginning of that grand conversation. Right after the dragon came swooping down at the last trebuchet and I yelled at everyone to run, a fire pot exploded and threw me off my feet. Next thing I know, that _thing_ is walking up to me out of what's now basically a damned fireball without a scratch on him and hauls me up into the air like it's nothing. That's when the fucking dragon came down and blocked the path.”

Varric grimaced at that before saying, “We were turning to come back for you when it came down, Swears. I think the Seeker was about half-convinced to take it on by herself if the whole damned town hadn't been burning around us.”

Smiling at him, she said reassuringly, “As much as I would have liked to see Cassandra take on a dragon - don't give me that look, Seeker, you could stare a dragon _fucking down_ and I'll have no argument on that - I'm glad you all got out safely.”

Cassandra snorted from her spot in the room. “While I disagree with your assessment of my abilities,” she said softly in the tone Meryell had started to learn was the warrior's version of amused, “I will not argue. I am merely glad that you also managed to get out of Haven.”

“By _luck_ ,” muttered Meryell and felt the fingers of one of Cullen's hands curl into the fabric of her borrowed coat. Sliding her hand over his, she continued, “Anyway, while this fucker has me up in the air he starts what's basically a damned _soliloquy_. I'm pretty sure he was only talking to me about half the time.”

“Does our supposed Magister have a name?” queried Dorian.

“Corypheus.”

Sera snorted and Meryell smiled at her as the other elf said, “Cory- _what_? What a shite name!” The blonde then leaned forward with a broad grin that belied the fear still lingering in her eyes. “Don't you worry, Glowy Bits, I'll come up with some right proper names to call this tit.”

“I have every bit of trust in your ability to do just that, Sera.”

Meryell then released Cullen's hand and lifted her left hand out from under the furs. The Mark - _the Anchor_ \- sparked, flaring bright green light across the whole of the tent and she clenched her teeth against the brief jolt of pain that flickered through her nerves. She heard Folke hiss and turned her head to look at him as he narrowed his eyes at her hand.

“It's,” he began, his voice low and cautious, “ _different…_ ”

“Fucker did something to it,” she replied with a snarl. “Felt like my damn arm was going to sear off. Like…” As she trailed off, Meryell locked eyes with Dorian and finished, “It felt like it did when we fell into that future. And then it got _worse_.”

As Dorian muttered a Tevene curse that she didn't quite catch, she heard Solas say, “It _is_ different from when I examined it originally.”

“Has it become dangerous?” asked Cassandra.

“No,” replied Folke before he released her right hand and reached for her left. Meryell let him have it and watched him as he cradled her hand in both of his much larger, callused thumbs pressing in on her palm in several spots. As the gash of green light flickered before going dormant again, once more becoming a slightly off-color slash across her hand, he said, “It's like it...grew? Not physically but in power. Like it…”

“Unlocked potential,” supplied Solas and she whipped her head around towards him as her father made an affirmative noise.

Folke nodded, saying, “Yes. Did it do anything strange, _ara vherain_?”

Grimacing at the question, Meryell replied, “That’s a later part of the story, _baba_. There’s another one that comes before that.” Gently pulling her hand from his, she clenched her fist for a moment then reopened it. As she did, the Anchor burst into light again and she looked up, seeking out Cassandra and Leliana’s eyes in turn as she growled, “ _He_ did this. That fucking _thing_ was responsible for the Conclave, for the rifts, for this _shit_ on my hand, for stealing my _damned life_... _all of it_.”

She hadn’t meant to say the ‘stealing my life’ part, had meant to keep those words behind her teeth but apparently her mouth had decided to betray her. It wasn’t untrue, however.

Every other person around her had _chosen_ to join the Inquisition.

She’d come into it with chains on her wrists and at the point of a sword.

Meryell shook her head fiercely and reached out with her right hand for Cullen’s. Their fingers tangled as they pressed palms together and she wanted to tell him that she hadn’t meant the abruptly spoken words...not entirely. Getting the Mark had also brought them together on the same path. That was a thing that she could never regret, even if nothing ever happened between them beyond the kiss they’d shared as Haven was collapsing around them.

“He wants to be a _god_ ,” she spat a moment later.

“Tevinter’s always do,” commented the Iron Bull, his amused tone changing the meaning behind the words. Beside him, Krem let out a loud snort while Dorian grumbled a quiet protest.

She couldn’t find the energy to smile at the jibe. Not when she’d been at that monster’s mercy, had heard the _madness_ spilling from his cracked lips. She didn’t want to _laugh_ at the experience.

She wanted to curl up in a corner despite her still sore ribs (which Gil had informed her had been cracked) and _fucking cry_ because this wasn’t just some noble with a grudge they were up against. This was a man (or dare she even call it that) who claimed to have been one of the Magister’s who’d become the first darkspawn. A being who could fucking _wear red lyrium_ like it was nothing and wield control over a dragon. Who had gathered an _army_ of templars twisted by that damned same lyrium to attack them. And who, in a future that no longer existed except in her own memories and Dorian’s, had brought the whole of Thedas to it’s _knees_ in a feat of destruction over a year that would have been impressive given the time frame it was executed in if it hadn’t been so Maker damned _terrifying._

Meryell could feel herself starting to breathe harder as panic swept over her.

Fighting demons and closing rifts, that was _easy._

How the _fuck_ were they supposed to fight something that claimed it was a god?

How could she keep the ones she cared for and loved _safe_ from that?

She faintly registered Cullen’s voice in her ear, followed by Folke’s, but couldn’t focus on them. There was, instead, only the hammering of her own heart in her ears, drowning out everything around her.

Then cold, half-frozen feeling fingers grabbed onto her left hand and Meryell startled, her eyes darting downward to meet the wide blue eyes of the boy. Cole frowned and clasped his other hand around hers as he said, “Hurting, panic, _fear._ How do I keep them safe? How do we fight a god?” It was like the words echoed through her skull even as she knew that he was pulling them _from her_.

Andraste’s dripping cunt, what _was_ this boy?

“Help,” replied that voice in her head, low and soothing. Distantly she registered that she had been bundled close to someone and they were rocking her, muttering a rapid stream of Elven under their breath. Folke, not Cullen, then in that case. That was probably Cullen that she could faintly hear shouting for a healer then.

Cole still gripped her hand between his own and Meryell tore her gaze away from him, burying her face against Folke’s throat as she closed her eyes and choked out a ragged, broken sound. His grip around her hand tightened as his voice echoed through her head again.

“They fear too, choking, tugging downward, threatening to drag them under. What if we can’t? Our forces are broken _but we live_. The Herald is broken _but she lives_. My daughter is wounded _but she fucking lives_. But what do we do now? Where do we go from here?”

And, abruptly, the answer is _there_.

Old words, half remembered, lingering in the back of her mind, an echo of her mother. A memory of skinned knees and tears softened by soothing words and warm hands bearing the calluses of alienage life. _Now, now, my Merry, no more tears. What have I told you about facing problems?_

Meryell opened her eyes and found herself clutching at Folke’s shoulder, one eye seeing only the skin of his throat, but the other seeing the worried faces of everyone else around her. And there is the boy Cole, a bright smile on his face as he nods and she hears his voice say, “ _Yes_ ,” in her mind.

“One foot...in...front of...the...other,” she managed to gasp through clenched teeth against her father’s throat as she felt her body continue to shake.

Then Gil was there, her hands glowing with magic and her eyes full of fury because her patient is _not well_ , and Meryell feels herself falling despite knowing that she really isn’t...but she does so with a smile. It’s not a plan - oh, Maker’s aching cock, it’s not even a _shred_ of a plan - but it’s a direction.

It’s a way _forward_.

And that’s all she needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven/Elvhen Translations**  
>  savhalla - hello  
> as - she  
> ehn - who  
> raja - to lead ( rajast - leads )  
> da’erelan - small mage
> 
> I went with the assumption that the vast majority of spirits are capable of speaking Elven/Elvhen, hence why Cole does so in this instance. It will not happen frequently where he himself speaks it, if at all again (though there may be moments where Meryell will say something and he will make a comment implying that he understands what she said).


	20. “Give me a solid fucking answer, Chuckles. Where am I going?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Meryell learns that Solas gives the vaguest directions _ever_. And that she owes the smarmy bastard _a-fucking-gain_ for saving not just some of the Inquisition, but the whole of it. Fucking _masvian_.

“I see you are feeling better, _da’len_.”

Meryell flicked her ears in silent acknowledgement of Solas’ words. Gil had finally released her after five days with the firm stipulation that she be _careful_ and keep her left arm in a sling to let it finish up its last bit of healing. That and she was to always wear plenty of layers because the last thing they needed was her to get another bout of frostbite right behind the one she’d barely gotten past.

The last had led to a hunt around the camp by both Folke and Cullen for what were deemed suitable clothes for her since her things hadn't made it out of Haven. It hadn’t given her a lot of matching things - which she didn’t care about except that some of them clashed as terribly as Sera’s wardrobe and she’d didn’t not care _that_ much - but it had gotten her a very nice pair of fur-lined boots.

“Better is debatable, Chuckles,” she replied as she realized he’d come to stand beside her.

She’d been looking back down the way she’d come, the long walk through a blizzard that should have rightly killed her. They couldn’t see Haven from their position further up in the Frostbacks but she didn’t need to see it. The memories of the village burning around their ears was seared into her memory for some time to come.

“True.” She did turn to look at the other elf then and arched an eyebrow when she noticed that he was standing next to her not only on _top_ of the snow without breaking it - which was a feat even she wasn’t capable of - but was doing so with his feet mostly bare. The mage smirked, obviously noting where her attention had gone, and said imperiously, “Magic.”

“Of course it is,” muttered Meryell as she shifted her attention back to the hill. “So what do you need, Chuckles? Just come to bother me?”

“Oh the contrary,” he replied. “I came to give you direction since you now seem able to take it given your recovery.”

“Direction, huh?”

She could practically _taste_ the smarm rolling off of him as he answered, “Is direction not what the Inquisition seeks right now?”

Snorting, Meryell replied, “Guess we do.” Turning to face him, she tugged the fur around her shoulders a little bit higher with her good hand to cover the back of her neck before asking, “So what brilliance have you got to share with me that you couldn’t tell someone _else_ before now?”

He merely smiled before turning even more starkly sober than he normally was - which was a damned fine feat for the mage. Solas turned his gaze away from her out towards the calm of the mountain air as he said in a quiet voice, “The orb you described to us in our second discussion. I have...I have seen it’s like in my travels in the Fade if what you told us of how it looked is true. Both it and the power he used against you are ours.”

“Ours?” she repeated with a slight curl to her lip. As she started to say that _they_ didn’t have anything in common, Meryell caught on to what he meant. “Elven,” she breathed. “You mean to tell me that it’s some kind of...ancient fucking Elven magic item?”

“A foci, yes.”

“So basically an ancient power equivalent of a staff or a wand.”

Solas arched an eyebrow and she smirked.

“My _baba_ may not be much of a mage but he _does_ use foci,” explained Meryell. “They’re nothing like what someone like you or Gil or anyone else uses but I know what they are. I’ve listened to all of them plan enough to give to our enchanter to know the general principle.”

The mage gave her what looked like it was almost an appraising look and she stuck out her tongue at him childishly.

“Charming,” he commented wryly. Then Solas clasped his hands behind his back and said, “I believe that Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. His unlocking of the orb must have triggered the explosion that destroyed the Conclave.”

Snorting, Meryell twitched her left hand underneath the fur. “Still doesn’t explain this _Anchor_ business.”

“I imagine that he meant to wield it himself. Yet somehow you took it for yourself.”

“Yeah,” she muttered, eyebrows scrunching as she fought to think of those hours before she’d awoken in Haven a prisoner. She could remember getting into the Conclave with the Dalish, could recall finding two of the things she’d been hired to retrieve, but after that...nothing. There was still a blank spot in her recollection and it _itched_ like a healing wound. “Somehow.”

She then shook her head before asking, “What happens when folk find out that the thing that took out the Conclave was Elven? Will they care that it was wielded by a Tevinter madman or will the fools turn all of their anger on our kind like they’ve done so many times before?”

Solas shrugged. “I do not know the answer to that, _da’len_ , but I too fear what may come of the knowledge being widespread. There are many who may not care about who wielded it.”

“Yeah,” replied Meryell, her jaw clenching. “I’ve met plenty that would.” She then shook her head and flashed a hard look at him as she said, “Now, enough about the fucking orb. You said _direction_ , so I sure as shit hope you meant an _actual_ one because we can’t stay on top of this Maker cursed mountain.”

The other elf smiled - that damned know-it-all smile - as he replied, “I have undertaken many travels through the Fade, to the now and to the most distant of the past. There are places in the world - places of power, of purpose - that can be put to the use of the Inquisition. One such is very close within our reach.”

He then turned away from the slope that lead downward towards the wreckage of Haven, gesturing vaguely with an arm for her to do the same. As they both turned to face the camp, he pointed off to the north as he said, “Take scouts and go ahead. Be their guide.”

Tired of his cryptic answers, Meryell growled, “Give me a solid fucking answer, Chuckles. Where am I _going?_ ”

Smirking, Solas replied, “The nearest place to use is simply waiting for a force to hold it. It is somewhere that the Inquisition can build, can grow, can become what it needs to be.”

“I’m not sure that counts as a solid answer but forget it.” Sighing, Meryell briefly touched the fingers of her right hand to her forehead before she asked, “What’s this special place of yours called?”

“ _Tarasyl’an Te’las_.”

Wrinkling her nose, she mouthed the unfamiliar name several times to herself before she said hesitantly, “The place of the sky? No, that’s not right. Kept. The place where the sky is kept.” When there was no immediate answer, Meryell turned to look at the other elf and found him regarding her with one of those odd expressions of his that she couldn’t read. “ _What?_ ”

“I have met many Dalish clans, _da’len_ , but few have ever held the vocabulary that you claim.”

Shrugging, Meryell off-handedly said, “ _Babae_ ’s clan was adamant about keeping as much of the old ways alive as they could. Just so happened that the language was one they held onto decently.” She then frowned and cocked her head at the mage. “Where’d _you_ learn to speak it? No, wait, don’t tell me...the fucking Fade.”

When he just smiled at her, she shook her head and waved a hand at him. Smug asshole.

“Nevermind. It have a name in more common terms?”

Solas slowly nodded before replying, “Those who found it later and built the fortress that sits upon the land called it _Skyhold_.”

“Skyhold,” repeated Meryell softly, her eyes fixed on the sky to the north. She then turned to look back behind her, back down the hill towards Haven, towards where she’d very nearly met her death. That was the past.

_What have I told you about facing problems?_

Her mother’s voice echoed in her ears - though only the fucking Maker knew if she actually remembered the woman’s voice correctly, it had been so long since she’d heard it - and she turned away from the slope towards the sky and ever rising ridges of the Frostbacks. In that direction was a hope for the future.

“Alright, Chuckles,” she said after a long moment, “we’ll see if we can find this _special_ place of yours. Not like we’ve got many other options for places to go.” Meryell then jerked her chin towards the open area where a makeshift sort of war table had been set up with a map that Arnald had pulled out of his own belongings that had made it into the wagons. “Now move your ass. You get to come with me to spring this new plan on everyone else.”

Solas chuckled lowly but followed her as she started moving, asking from behind her, “And how shall you explain listening to me?”

Snorting, she replied over her shoulder, “Easy, Chuckles. I’ll tell ‘em that I threatened to gut you with one of my daggers if you were lying. Same as I’m doing right now.”

“I ponder at times how you have managed to make it through life upon threats alone.”

“Oh, it’s not a threat, _hahren_ ,” Meryell replied in a low purr. “It’s a _promise._ I don’t take kindly to being fucked over.”

* * *

Almost a week later, Meryell hauled herself up one-handed onto a rock and stood cautiously up into the bracing wind that had been chasing them through the Frostbacks for the past few days. She fully expected to find only snow and rock before them once more but, for the first time in so many days, she actually got a surprise.

Instead of more miles of snow and ice and rock, the mountains suddenly dropped off ahead of her into a valley that was still full of mist this early in the morning. And out of the shifting mists rose the bulk of an ancient keep, its walls just barely painted golden by the first rays of the sun that were starting to show.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” she breathed after a moment.

“The Commander may have an issue with that,” commented Pod as he clambered up next to her. He then whistled a high note and she turned to see his eyes were wide with surprise. “Damn fine find though. You want me to grab that lightfoot of the spymaster’s and see if we can find a way down?”

Snorting at the way he referenced the slight young man who seemed far too small for his proclaimed age of ten and seven years, Meryell replied, “Just find a path that can be traversed by normal people and not mountain goats like you two, eh? Last thing we need is someone breaking their fucking neck.”

Pod flashed her a mostly belligerent salute, his grin twisting the branches of his _vallaslin_ so they showed instead of the ink nearly fading into his skin thanks to the similar shade. Then he was bounding off, shouting the name of one of the other scouts before he clapped his arm around the youth’s shoulders. After a moment, they bolted off together and she shook her head while smiling.

Then she heard the sound of boots scuffing against stone behind her as well as a familiar grunt and turned to find Cullen rising to stand next to her. The wind blew his fur back a little from his shoulders and set his curly hair (which he had stated outright wasn’t a priority to set to rights until they were resettled) into even more of an unruly mess. He sighed dramatically before grinning at her as he tipped his chin towards the keep in the distance.

“I see that Solas was correct that there was something to the north.”

“Vaguest fucking directions _ever_ ,” she replied with a smile.

Cullen chuckled and nodded before saying, “They turned out, though.” She watched him as he narrowed his eyes and held up a hand to block a bit of the wind from blowing into his gaze and causing his eyes to water. Watching him assess what they could see of the keep was almost as fascinating at observing Folke at work because she could tell when he was noting something particular. His eyes lingered on whatever it was, narrowing in with an intensity that was more than a little daunting, before they were on the move again.

It made her wonder how often he focused that sort of attention on her when she wasn’t paying attention.

Shaking herself, Meryell realized he’d said something and asked, “What?”

Laughing, he replied, “I said it certainly looks like it has kept together for however long it's been abandoned but there’s no telling until we get closer how badly damaged the insides are. We can only hope it’s a purely stone structure and not largely wood on the inside. If it’s the latter we’re going to have our work cut out for us for a while.” Then he leaned forward and his voice dropped several octaves as he growled, “Whatever were you thinking, dear thief? You were _awfully_ lost in thought.”

“Was I?” she replied airily, turning away from him back towards the keep in an attempt to hide her flush. With the wind, it could be easily excused away as the cold taking hard to her cheeks.

“You were.” Cullen then sidled a step closer to her, one arm wrapping around her waist as he rested a hand lightly above her hip. It was a subtle sort of grip, especially with the layers of clothes she was wearing underneath the fur-lined jacket, that didn’t veer much towards intimacy. Not that anyone in the Inquisition would care as she’d learned that the story of their kiss in the Chantry had spread in hushed whispers, accompanied by the quick recitation of him carrying her icy body into their camp and then promptly disappearing for the rest of the night. A tale of heartbreak and hope was the description she’d heard about it and nearly curled her nose in disgust.

She didn’t mind folks knowing about her relationship with him or them seeing them together but she was damned well against them turning it into some kind of a sappy romance out of one of Varric’s terrible novels. They had their issues and neither of them had the spotless record of the main romantic characters in those sort of books. If someone was going to write about them - and no doubt Varric eventually _would -_ they had fucking better get them right.

Leaning into him, Meryell hummed before saying, “Just admiring your hair.” Despite everything, they still weren't at a place where she was comfortable admitting what she’d been thinking. Maybe someday but not now.

Cullen groaned and shook his head before commenting, “I don't understand why you _like_ it. It's more trouble than it's worth.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why I like it.”

“I really don’t think that’s the answer. And I don't think you were admiring my hair.”

Smiling, Meryell canted her head back to look at him upside down, saying in a sing-song voice, “I'll never tell.” Then she laughed before adding, “I'm not lying when I say I like your hair.”

He suddenly broke into a grin, lifting his free hand with one finger extended. “Ah ha!” Cullen exclaimed victoriously. “And that confirms you _weren't_ admiring my hair at all. Telling me you're not lying is telling me _something_ , so obviously that wasn't why you were distracted.”

“I confirm nothing.”

“Oh no,” he said firmly, “I'm onto you now, dear thief. I'll find out what's going on in that head of yours.”

Laughing at his determination, Meryell said, “Over whiskey?”

Cullen shrugged off-handedly before saying airily, “ _If_ I could manage to find a bottle.” She'd learned well in the time they'd spent together that he had a penchant for squirrelling alcohol away (though he claimed _she_ had inspired the habit so he wouldn't have to walk all the way to the tavern for a bottle) and the soldiers had made sure to get the main contents of their Commander's tent in the wagons leaving Haven. Somehow the two bottles he'd had stored away hadn't broken in transit and they'd already celebrated publicly with the inner circle with one on the day she was officially released from healers. Which left one for their own private use. Then he grinned down at her, his voice lowering in volume as he asked, “Tonight in my tent?”

“I wouldn't miss it,” she replied, nuzzling her cheek against the fur of his mantle. “No Inquisition talk.”

“What will be the topic of the night then?”

“Tell me more about Honnleath. And your siblings.” Meryell then froze and asked, “You _did_ send a letter to Mia already, didn't you? Fuck knows that word will get out soon about Haven getting decimated and the last thing I want is your sister storming the gates trying to figure out if you're alive.”

Cullen chuckled and reassuringly rubbed his hand in a circle over her hip. “No,” he replied, “there won't be any storming of the gates happening. I took your warning about not writing to her to heart the first time and already sent a letter when there was a raven free.”

“Good,” she said sternly. She'd only learned about his siblings after that day-long talk of theirs when he'd also told her about Kirkwall, which had softened her outrage at his bad writing habits considerably. Family was a thing she'd always taken seriously and it had only become more so after she'd no longer had any of her own blood. She always did her best to keep Folke informed when she was out in the field and he'd always done the same for her. Meryell had understood Cullen's reluctance to expose his siblings to what had happened to him (especially after explaining that they had become orphans after the Blight) but they'd still deserved more than _I'm alive_ after having to track him down.

“If I am to tell you about Honnleath,” Cullen asked in a somewhat cautious sounding tone, “will you tell me about South Reach?”

Wrinkling her nose, Meryell replied, “There isn't all that much to tell.”

“Maybe not, but I'd like to hear what it was like growing up in the alienage just the same.” She heard more than felt him rub his fingers against her side, the leather of his gloves scratching against her jacket. “I'm curious as to what you were like as a child.”

Snorting, she said, “Depends on when we're talking about.”

Cullen sighed and he lifted his other hand to lightly touch her cheek, turning her face upwards towards his with a gentle press of his thumb against the underside of her jaw. “Dear thief,” he rumbled warmly, sending a jolt of lust straight through her at what delicious things it did to his voice, “haven't you gotten it yet that I want to know it all? That everything about you fascinates me?”

Blinking several times, Meryell softly answered, “It seems I need a reminder.”

“It seems you do. Tonight?”

“ _Fuck. Yes_ ,” she hissed, already thinking of times past when they sat together on the floor of his tent or laid on her bed. When gloves and armor had come off and between drinks they had talked and let hands wander. They rarely dipped below clothes; it was more about learning responses and each other. Such as he'd learned that running his fingers up and down the outside of her thighs would set her squirming in frustration and she'd learned that raking her nails down his back (done initially because he was trying to reach an itchy spot) would make him loose the most _delicious_ growl of pleasure she'd ever heard a man utter. There were a dozen other things found in their painfully slow exploration and she longed for the day they were both ready to delve deeper.

Cullen chuckled and thumbed his finger lightly across the skin of her lower lip, softly saying, “I look forward to wherever we camp tonight them, whether it be in the valley or inside the keep itself.” The rough touch of his gloved hand tugging gently at her skin made her shiver and Meryell kicked her lips in response.

Then she met his eyes again and thought, _There. That is what it looks like when he looks at me as intensely as he did Skyhold._ It was both glorious and _absolutely terrifying_ to be the target of such an intense gaze.

“Oy, Yeller!”

Pod’s shout had both of them jumping and Meryell turned with a snarl on her lips as Cullen pulled away from her with an abrupt blush gracing his cheeks. “ _What?_ ” she spat, at both the untimely interruption and the use of that thrice-damned nickname.

The elf that was the target of her ire just grinned back at her, all of her rage just rolling off his back with no effect. He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder in the direction he and Leliana’s scout had gone and said, “The _durgen hoarlin_ and I found you a path that won't kill anyone. Figured you and the Commander would want to know straight off.”

Literally the only thing saving him from her launching herself at him and strangling the life out of him was that it wouldn't do a damned thing. That and the Captain would kill her.

Instead she settled for striding forward to latch her right arm _hard_ around Pod's neck, forcing him to bend slightly to compensate for their height difference. As soon as his ear was level with her mouth, she snarled, "You're lucky I don't want to piss off the Captain, _telsilathe_. Otherwise you'd be eating dirt right now and I _don't_ mean in the me kicking you face first down into it kind of way.”

"Oh, come on, _asa'ma'lin_ ,” Pod groaned back as he lifted a hand to grab her wrist lightly. "Y'know I don't mean nothing bad. Just friendly prodding, same as we always do.”

Nodding in response, Meryell said, "Oh, I _know_ you don't mean anything bad. You've always fucked with me when I've been in a relationship but never harshly or with ulterior motives." She paused just long enough for dramatic effect before finishing, "But _you_ , _isa’ma’lin_ , just interrupted a _Moment_.”

Sighing heavily, he grumbled, “I'm getting the impression that I'm about to lose a body part over this.”

“Maybe after we've gotten settled.”

Pod chuckled uneasily and tilted his head enough to flick the tip of his ear against hers, a purely Dalish gesture that he and Evune had introduced her to. It was essentially both a way of asking _are you okay_ and _are we okay_ though considerably more convoluted than that. Like most Dalish things, she simplified it down to its most basic.

“The only thing saving me is my eyes, eh?” he asked.

Meryell squeezed his neck briefly before she flicked her ear back against his twice. Once meant you weren't okay, twice meant you were. Simple. Plus it was a nice silent communication.

“Only damned thing good about your fool ass,” she replied before releasing him. Pod just grinned and she reached out to punch him hard in the shoulder before adding, “Go run and find the rest of the bunch for me, _isa’ma’lin._ Then we can go over this way down of yours.”

He dipped immediately into an overly exaggerated bow, saying, “Anything for our beloved Herald!” She promptly put a boot in his ass in return as he strode off, kicking him forward through a set of skittering steps that he laughing during. Then she turned back to Cullen and found him watching her with open amusement, though one hand still nervously rested at the back of his neck.

It was one of those gestures that reminded her how private of a man he really was, a trait he openly admitted that she somehow managed to sideline more than half the time. He was comfortable when it didn't seem like people were paying them attention but when someone came right up to them, he instantly retreated back to _friend_ from...well, whatever term they wanted to put to what was going on. It certainly wasn't _lover_ but it also wasn't just _friend_.

“ _Ih-sah-mah-len?_ ” he pronounced tentatively, his tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar pronunciation.

Smiling, Meryell sidled back up next to him and explained, “It means _brother. Asa'ma'lin,_ what he called me, is _sister_.”

“And... _tell-sil-ah-theh?_ ”

“ _Tell-sill-ah-they_ ,” she corrected lightly. “Annoyance.”

Cullen snorted a laugh at that, shaking his head. “Oh, yes, brothers are that indeed,” he said. Then he cocked his head to the side and asked, “Why _brother_ and _sister_ though? If I may ask?”

Shrugging, she replied, “We came into the company around the same time. You know the story of how I got there but Pod...well. The way I heard it…”

“Heard it?” repeated Cullen as he interrupted her. “That sounds like you didn't know each other very well at first.”

“Shit, we fought like fucking _mad_. Ferelden and Orlesian levels of wanting to murder each other from the day we met.” Shaking her head once sharply, Meryell went on, “Anyway, way I heard it, Pod got found half-dead on the way back from a job. Covered in fucking blood with his broken bow clenched in his fingers. One of the oldsters who's no longer with us, Kord, he said he'd never seen anyone that injured rise up and take out a man so fast. Pod was half crazy, wild on battle high and the need to survive, and they had to knock him out to get him back to base.”

Cullen arched his eyebrows and asked, “So what happened?”

“He was a hunter - probably fucking obvious from his skill with a bow but whatever - and new to his _vallaslin_. Went out on a hunt with several others and they chased their quarry into some ruins. Turns out that giant spiders had taken it over as their home.”

By his sudden flinch, she got the immediate impression that Cullen had tangled with giant spiders at least once. Knowing what she did of Kirkwall and the Vimmarks, it was probably from chasing an escaped mage or an apostate.

“Pod was the only survivor,” she finished as she crossed her right arm underneath the sling holding her left. “We managed to find his clan while he was healing up and they...well, they'd already written the whole group off for dead. And they seemed more angry than pleased that he'd survived. Like he was supposed to fucking die with the rest.”

Gritting her teeth, Meryell continued, “Only reason I was there was Folke had the intent to teach me _manners_ via having me observe the talking. When they said that, he told me to let loose, and I gave those fuckers the whole of my mind. His Keeper said we could have him as they would not allow a coward back into the clan and Folke promptly told ‘em that the company would be glad to have someone that could survive like that and keep going.”

“A loss for them and a gain for the company,” Cullen noted solemnly. He then smiled and lifted a hand, tilting it slightly back and forth. “And it seems a gain for Pod himself if that would have been their mood around him if he'd returned? Was you being involved in the talks the reason you didn't like each other at first?”

“Fuck no,” she replied with a laugh. “That was just the good old shit piss of Dalish dislike for city kin. Nearly killed each other a couple of times until the Captain threatened to murder us both.”

He chuckled and asked, “So how did you _not_ end up murdering each other, dear thief?”

Meryell laughed and just so happened to turn to answer him enough to see Pod returning with Cassandra and Josephine at his heels. Instead of explaining, she let her right hand fall away from gripping her left elbow and lightly tapped her knuckles against his breastplate. “That,” she announced sharply, “will have to be part of our discussion for tonight. Looks like it's time to talk about how we get over there.”

Cullen smiled in response and said softly, “I think I can wait for the rest of that story.” He then held out a hand in a gesture towards them and said, “After you.”

Wrinkling her nose, she asked, “How about _with you_? I mean, I appreciate the chivalry or whatever but...wait, you _always_ walk next to me after I told you fuck chivalry ages ago.” Stopping abruptly, Meryell scowled up at him. “You just wanted to look at my ass.”

“I admit nothing,” he replied completely straight-faced. There was a gleam in his eyes, however, that told her exactly how much he was lying.

She pointed a single finger at him with a serious expression before smirking and striding off anyway, giving him whatever time he wanted to look. It didn't take him long to follow and when he did, one hand came to rest lightly against the small of her back. Meryell didn't really look forward to another plotting session but if it got them closer to being out of the _damned snow_ , she'd go through however many were needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvhen/Elven Translations:**
> 
>  
> 
> durgen hoarlin - mountain lamb (because there's no word for goat and he's a kid)  
> telsilathe - annoyance  
> asa'ma'lin - sister  
> isa’ma’lin - brother


	21. “She has to know if we declare it. It can't be a surprise like they want. She'll refuse outright if it is.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a terrible plan is formed and subsequently changed by agreement between himself and Cassandra, after which Cullen has to go and inform Meryell as to just what said plan is. And how he can't really disagree with the logic of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit. We break 100k next chapter. And we're barely at fucking _Skyhold_.
> 
> I'm getting the distinct feeling that this is going to turn into the sort of beast of a fic that my most ancient of HP fics was.

“They _can't_ be serious.”

Cassandra merely blinked slowly at him in response as he paced in the tower that he'd claimed to be his own office (multiple points of entry that made it accessible to the soldiers and secluded enough to keep his somewhat worsening nightmares from disturbing anyone). She was leaning against the desk that had been moved in, a heavy thing that he currently wasn't even using due to the tower still needing a few masonry related repairs, and shaking her head slightly at him.

“Do you think I have not pointed this out myself, Cullen?” she asked with only slight exasperation.

Stopping in his tracks facing the middle door, he bowed his head and sighed. Out of the four of them, he knew Meryell best and Cassandra was somewhere behind him with their battlefield born trust. Josephine just so rarely had time for anyone that wasn't someone she was plying influence with (time that was even _less_ now in their recovery stage) and Leliana was still a cautious topic for Meryell that the elf didn't trust.

So _of course_ Cassandra was his ally in this argument.

Lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose in a futile effort to stave off the first signs of a withdrawal born migraine already pulsing behind his eyes, Cullen softly said, “I apologize. Of course you did, Cassandra.”

The woman behind him grunted before observing matter-of-factly, “You aren't taking care of yourself again.”

“There's too much work to do,” he growled in response. Between laying out land at the base of the hill Skyhold sat upon as grounds for the soldiery (a task which he'd thankfully had Arnald’s considerable aid in constructing) and organizing patrols around the work having to be done to the keep as well as taking stock of what was there, he'd been run ragged over the first month of their occupation. It hadn't helped that he was more often than not too tired to give little more than a cursory grunt whenever Meryell showed up in his tent. He hadn't the energy to find hers except on the rarest of occasions and she'd taken to showing up in his without a drop of alcohol, silently helping him out of his armor and just curling up in his cot with him to run her fingers through his hair amongst a flutter of Elven words that were soothing nonsense to his ears or the rare Ferelden lullaby.

It was practically the only contact they'd had of late as any other time they saw each other it was Inquisition related. She would occasionally rest a hand on his arm for a moment, smiling up at him before she set off again, and he would sometimes get the opportunity to pull her aside just long enough to hug her against him for a few precious seconds, one of those things that reminded him that she was _alive_ and _safe_.

“The both of you should know that the whole of the Inquisition won't fall apart if you take a few moments of the day to yourselves,” scoffed Cassandra. He frowned at her words and turned to face her, a little startled that _she_ looked surprised at _his_ confusion. “You didn't know?”

“That she's running herself as ragged as I am?” asked Cullen. Sudden ire flashed through him, his temper wrung to its end by recent events, and he flung up his hands angrily as he snarled onward, “How the _fuck_ am I supposed to know what's going on when I barely see her and, on the rare occasion that I do, both of us are too tired to do anything but sleep?”

He then closed his eyes tightly as pain flared through his head and lifted his hands higher to press two fingers against each temple. Vaguely he heard Cassandra move towards him and when Cullen opened his eyes, she was standing in front of him with a concerned look on her face.

“Go to your tent, Cullen,” she said firmly and despite that look and the pain in his head, he started to open his mouth to argue. In response, she immediately lifted a gloved hand and _shoved_ him in the chest with the heel of her palm.

Stumbling backwards, he managed to catch his balance again but only _barely_. Mostly it was thanks to the wall behind him as one hand had flung out to catch himself and just so happened to brace against it.

“You cannot even _stand_ , Commander.”

“I can stand _fine_ so long as I'm not _shoved_ _without warning_ ,” Cullen spat back but he already knew he'd lost the battle. He'd sparred against Cassandra enough since joining the Inquisition to know when he should bow out.

She sniffed in response and said stonily, “You asked me to keep an eye on you, to give my judgement upon your work.”

Shoulders deflating, he nodded and leaned back against the wall. “Yes,” he replied wearily.

“Then listen to me in _this_.” Cassandra’s voice then softened as she went on, “The world will not fall apart if you take a single night, Cullen. I thought Meryell had helped you learn that lesson but apparently you _both_ have forgotten it.”

He bit his lip around the words his mouth wanted to say, that _nearly dying_ and _sending her to die_ had rattled them both hard. Cullen knew it, Meryell knew it, yet neither had had a real moment to _talk_ about it. The march to Skyhold had been spent trying _not_ to think about how damned close it had been. Inane conversation had filled their moments and nights instead, talking about company members or their life before the world had been thrown out from under their feet.

And now they both stood on the cusp of falling, toes on the knife edge, and _they wanted to name her Inquisitor_.

The mere thought made his mind go skittering towards thoughts he didn't want, things he didn't think his already over-labored head could go through, and shook himself. There was _one_ thing though that needed to, no, _had to_ be covered if Leliana and Josephine were determined in their course. He couldn't argue with the placement of the position himself (it was sound logic to set the woman who'd brought them this far in charge) and knew that Cassandra couldn't either because her mind worked in the same sensible way his own did.

Meeting her eyes, he said firmly, “She has to know if we declare it. It _can't_ be a surprise like they want. She'll refuse outright if it is.”

“As we already agreed,” replied Cassandra with a heavy nod. She then flicked a hand at him in a shooing motion, saying, “Go to your tent. I will find a runner to get her or, if she proves stubborn, find her myself and drag her there. Tell her. Talk to her. _Sort out_ whatever this is driving you two. And for the Maker's sake and our own, Cullen, take care of yourself.”

Her voice softened considerably and she even _smiled_ as she finished, “The Inquisition may need its Commander but I believe my friend and I need _our friend_ more.”

Though he didn't quite understand where exactly their friendship had come from, he was abruptly glad for it. Meryell, despite all of her cursing and somewhat rough demeanor, had softened Cassandra just a touch via their friendship. It was something that had also translated over to their own friendship, leaving them in a somewhat more annoying (since she was more often on him about his health) but all-together better place.

“Fine,” he agreed with a sigh. Then Cullen straightened up and pointed at her as he added, “If something goes wrong though…”

“I will assess it, consult with Rylen _and_ Captain Arnald, and _then_ determine if I need to send someone to retrieve you,” Cassandra interrupted in a no-nonsense tone that didn't allow for a single shred of combat against it. “The whole of Skyhold will not collapse without you or her. _Go._ ”

Knowing he'd well and truly lost, Cullen shook his head and turned, leaving his office to stride across the walkway that lay between his tower and the bulk of the keep. As he entered the rotunda that sat at the base of what would eventually be the library (it was more empty shelves than anything at the moment), he found Solas in his usual place up on scaffolding with his paints working on whatever project he'd undertaken once the room was clear. What surprised him was that _Meryell_ was laying on the comfortable looking sofa that had found its way into the center of the room, her back towards the closed door that led to the main hall.

Glancing at the mage, who acknowledged him with a half bob of his head without turning away from his work, Cullen made his way towards the sofa. He deliberately scuffed the soles of his boots against the stone of the floor to make noise announcing his approach and was rewarded by a bleary eyed Meryell lifting her head above the arm before he'd quite reached her. Her brown hair, which had grown considerably longer than the shaggy short cut that she'd had on her arrival, was in a wildly mussed halo around her head that hovered in length between her chin and shoulders and told him she'd been asleep on the sofa for some time.

“Hi,” she mumbled sleepily as she blinked up at him.

“Hi,” he replied before slowly dropping to one knee next to her. “I didn't expect to find you here.”

Meryell blinked then her sleepy eyes flicked across the room towards Solas’ back. Then they came back to him as she grumbled, “He may be an asshole but he at least let's me sleep without another fucking missive to sign or whatever other shit piss that apparently needs _me_ to do it. Keeps the lot of them off my back too.”

“You are welcome, _da’len_ ,” came the other elf's voice from across the room.

“ _Serannas, hahren_.”

Solas snorted and said, “Be careful. That almost sounded _appreciative_ and not the _insult_ you meant it as.”

Meryell wrinkled her nose and growled in response, “ _Lasa adahl su nar masa, hahren._ ”

“Ah. Now the world shall not end because you actually thanked me. I can rest at ease.”

Cullen blinked several times at what seemed like banter but the idea of these two _bantering_ was a foreign sort of thought process. Neither liked the other and he'd been privy to at least two rants about Solas where the only word he could recognize coming out of Meryell's mouth was his name and the few Elven curse words he'd managed to pick up. He wasn't sure of what Solas’ opinion of her was but he didn't imagine that it was much better than Meryell's of him. They mixed as well as badly mismatched armor or a sword in an ill-fitted sheath.

“Fuck you, Chuckles.” Meryell sat up fully then, running her fingers back through her hair with a grimace as they caught on tangles she obviously hadn't expected. She growled angrily at it before giving up and looking up at him with a grumpy sort of petulant look that was, to put it simply, adorable. Then she asked, “You were looking for me?”

“I actually wasn't,” replied Cullen. “Hence my surprise. I was, ah, hoping to see you later though.” He stalled out his hand as he realized it was rising nervously towards the back of his neck and grumpily flicked it back down to hang at his side. “There's something we should talk about.”

“Something important?” she asked, her eyes looking more awake than they had a moment before. She flicked her gaze towards Solas’ back and lowered her voice as she began to ask, “It's not….u…”

“No,” he soundly interjected, leaning over to take up her hands in his. Her fingers curled around his and he once again regretted his gloves despite the cold.

Shaking his head, Cullen finished softly, “No, dear thief, it's nothing about us.”

Except _that_ was a lie but he wasn't letting his brain go there. Not yet anyway.

Meryell nodded her head just slightly then smiled, fingers flexing against his as she said, “I can meet you this evening…” As he started shaking his head, she frowned. “Not this evening?” she asked in a disappointed sounding tone.

“Not what I meant,” replied Cullen with a smile. Gently tugging at her hands, he lifted her up from her seat and pulled her against him, distinctly not caring about Solas’ presence or anyone that might be above working on the library or rookery floors. Releasing her hands, he slid his arms around her as he said warmly, “I have been soundly told that I should rest. Apparently I've been overworking myself.”

She arched her eyebrows as she leaned into him, her own arms wrapping around his waist though he couldn't feel the embrace through his armor. “Who managed to convince you of that when I've been trying for weeks?”

“Guess, dear thief.”

“Only Cassandra is stubborn enough to take you on and win.” Meryell then grinned wickedly and leaned forward to prop her chin against his breastplate, batting her eyes playfully. “How’d she do it? I need to know for the next time you get all stuck in work.”

Cullen just smiled in reply before softly saying, “She pointed out that _you_ were doing the same thing.”

That made her cheeks color and Meryell abruptly straightened, leaning away from him as far as the loop of his arms would allow. “I'm not doing _that_ much,” she grumbled. “Just making sure everyone's got somewhere to sleep, checking on the Fangs and the soldiers, making sure the kitchens have all of the supplies they need. Same things I did lots of fucking times before.”

“Before Josephine also had you running around doing other things.”

“I'm _fine_.”

Sighing, Cullen moved one arm from around her as he curled the other more tightly, drawing her close again. As he touched her cheek with his now free hand, he rumbled softly, “ _Ve-hen-an-ar-rah_ , you were just sleeping on _Solas’_ couch in order to protect yourself from anyone wanting you to do something. _Solas_.”

Meryell went still in his arms and he realized that she was suddenly breathing hard, her eyes wide. Confused, he began, “Are you…”

“I'm fine,” she hurriedly replied. Then she closed her eyes and asked quietly, “Do you...do you know what that means?”

Frowning, thinking he'd perhaps done something wrong, Cullen replied, “No, but it obviously means _something_ since you only say it to me. Do you not want me to use it?”

“ _No!_ I just...you can use it, Cullen. It's…” She paused to take in a long breath, letting it go in a quick rush along with the words, “If anyone else can use it, I would like to think you can.”

More than a little confused, he asked, “Are you going to tell me what it _means_ , dear thief?” He wasn't about to ask the only other Elven speaking people he knew well what it meant. Mostly he wasn't entirely sure they'd tell him truthfully (Folke _probably_ would) but also because he wanted to hear it's meaning from _her_. It seemed only proper since she was the one who'd started calling him it.

Meryell smiled then, a little bit of coyness in the expression amongst the still wide-eyed surprise, and replied, “One day.”

“ _Tease._ ” She laughed - hopefully at his playful affronted tone- and he smiled at the sound. It had become a rarity of late. Cullen then brushed his fingers across her cheekbones as he said, “Come take a break with me, dear thief. Surely there's a quiet corner somewhere in this beast of a keep.”

Her eyes lit up then and she replied, “I know just the fucking place. _You_ need to lose the armor though.”

“I was intending on it.”

“And grab one of Gil’s potion that she gave you for that headache.”

How she managed to _always_ know when he was having the start of a migraine was still a mystery. He was certain that he didn't give anything away until they were at their worst and by then he was usually somewhere secluded. Yet somehow she almost always knew.

Nodding, Cullen replied, “I'll take one as soon as I get to my tent.”

“Good,” said Meryell firmly. She then smiled and continued, “I'll meet you out behind the stables in...half a glass?”

“I'll be there.”

Beaming brightly, she slipped out of his arms then and practically scampered off, no sign of her having been asleep only moments before except for the wild nest of her hair. Cullen shook his head after her and started to follow then paused, looking back over at the back of the bald elf.

“Solas.”

“Yes, Commander?” he asked as he bowed his head over whatever bowl of paint he was currently working with.

Cullen bit his lip and this time didn't stop the hand from rising to rub at the back of his neck. “Thank you,” he began. “For helping her.”

Solas merely hummed in response before saying, “Though we may disagree, I am well aware that we would get nowhere without her. And not simply for the mark on her hand.” As he focused back on his artwork, shoulders shifting as he lifted his arm again, the elf finished, “Never fear, Commander, despite our dislike I shall be at her back.”

“Thank you, Solas.”

“You are welcome. Though I believe you are inching close to missing your meeting.”

Taking the words as the dismissal they were, Cullen bowed his head towards the elf despite his back being towards him and left. Given that his tent was currently set up right in the courtyard just down the stairs from the main keep along with most of the rest of the inner circle, it didn't take him long to strip out of his armor and hang it on it's stand. As he tugged on a new tunic to replace the slightly sweaty one he'd had on underneath everything, Cullen lifted up the lid of a smaller chest nestled down into the bottom of his larger one. Inside were several potion bottles nestled into a custom made padding that protected them from clattering against each other or the sides of the box and breaking. It had been a gift delivered by Folke during the first week after they'd settled into the keep, when his withdrawals had abruptly been so fierce that he'd stayed huddled in his tent for two days under the lie that he had a mild cold.

With two of Gil's potions in him and nearly decimating the supply of tea the hedge mage had given him what seemed ages ago, he'd come out of those two days feeling better than ever. Before the work load of restoring the keep had come crashing down on him in full force.

Carefully lifting one of the bottles out, Cullen uncorked it and cautiously downed half of it, judging it enough for the time being since the migraine forming wasn’t one of the fiercer ones. It immediately went to work, easing the piercing ache throbbing at his temples and the stabbing sensation lurking behind his eyes. He did, however, recork the bottle and tuck the remainder into the pouch on his belt in case he needed the rest later. If he turned out to be wrong, he would want it on him and not a long walk back to his tent away.

Rewrapping himself up in his coat, he left his tent but took longer than he’d expected to get from it to the stable. It seemed like now that he was supposed to _not_ be working, everyone and their damned _mother_ had something they needed him to look at or sign or wanted to talk to him. He directed most of them to Cassandra, a few to Rylen, and told _all_ of them and every runner he managed to catch the sleeve of to spread word that he and the Herald were not to be bothered unless _Corypheus himself_ was at the damned gate of Skyhold.

Given his vehement phrasing of that statement, he’d probably scared a few years off most of them but Cullen couldn’t really bring himself to care.

When he finally rounded the back corner of the stables after _barely_ escaping being dragged into an in-depth conversation with Dennet over whether Ferelden steeds were better stock than others (apparently saying _one_ respectful word about an impressive piece of horseflesh and suddenly he’s an expert according to that man), Meryell looked at him with both eyebrows arched high. And, dare he say, a little bit of caution in her eyes?

“I was beginning to worry,” she said softly.

Cullen sighed and shook his head, reaching out to take her hands in his now bare ones. One gentle tug brought her in close and he explained, “Apparently now that I’m off for the day, everyone wanted to talk to me on my way here.”

“So _not_ putting off coming to meet me out of nerves?”

“No,” he replied with a serious frown, blinking down at her. Where had _that_ question come from? “Why would you think that?”

“I just…” Meryell’s voice trailed off and she sighed heavily, shaking her head as she took a step closer and leaned into his chest. “Nothing,” she mumbled a moment later. “Nevermind.”

“Fuck no, I won't just _nevermind_ ,” Cullen hissed back as he lifted both hands to her face, worried even more as he tried to tip her chin back so he could look at her and found resistance. As soon as he felt the pushback, he instantly stopped and leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead as he breathed, “There is _nothing_ wrong with us, Meryell. I am here. I am _not_ fucking leaving.”

 _Not yet_ , whispered a traitorous part of his mind and Cullen viciously hushed it with all the fury he could muster.

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled and he stroked his thumbs across her cheeks in response.

“You have _nothing_ to be sorry for.”

“Not even turning into a soppy bitch at the first drop of a hat because my brain is a complete fucker and I’m damned tired?”

Cullen chuckled and replied, “Soppy, maybe, but never a bitch, dear thief.” He then closed his eyes and let out a long breath as he pressed a kiss into her hair. Did he dare admit his own weakness to her? To tell her that he _knew_ the words she refused to say, the ones that her traitorous brain whispered alongside _you are not worthy_ , because he felt that same doubt too?

That on nights when she was not there he woke thinking it had all been a dream? That he had never lightly skimmed the skin underneath her tunic with his fingertips? That the blazing memory of her tilting her head back to take his mouth as he pressed her bodily against the Chantry wall while battle raged outside was false? That she had never settled warmly underneath his arm in the tavern or anywhere else?

That no one would ever or could ever care so deeply for the broken man he really was behind the shield of his duty and oaths and armor?

 _Could_ he give that much of himself away?

For her...the answer was undoubtedly _yes_.

“I know,” was what he managed to speak, lips pressed hard against her scalp and her hair muffling his voice.

“What?”

Sighing, Cullen opened his eyes and leaned back and this time she let him tilt her chin up so their eyes could meet. In the darkened area behind the stable, her eyes were an almost moss green with no sign of those copper flecks that normally caught the light or the telltale gleam that gave her away as an elf as much as her pointed ears did.

“ _I. Know._ ” He repeated the words purposefully, saying them with sharp inflection in order to get his point across. When Meryell still looked at him with confusion, Cullen asked softly, “You think that I don't have doubts myself, dear thief?”

Her mouth opened, dropping into a soft _o_ shape, and she breathed, “You doubt…?”

“Whether I am worthy,” Cullen pressed on before he lost his nerve, before she thought he doubted _them_. “Of my position... _of you_.” Shaking his head, he went on hurriedly, “The things I've done...that I've seen...by all rights I should not be worthy of any sort of affection.”

“Cullen…”

“I am nothing more than a failed templar, a broken down lyrium addict barely hanging on to sanity by my fingernails.”

 _That_ seemed to strike something in her and suddenly Meryell's hands were in his hair, dragging him down towards her. He didn't know what he'd expected her to do but slanting her mouth against his, her lips warm and soft, was decidedly _not_ it. The sudden motion rattled his entire head, sending fragmented little jolts of pain through the affected areas but it was nowhere near enough to make him flinch or stop.

Grunting, Cullen shifted his grip on her face, one hand sliding back into her hair to curl his fingers against the back of her skull. His other hand roamed downward as he willingly opened his mouth to hers, fingers dragging across the fabric of the coat she wore against the cold before he found her hip. He pulled her close even as he took a step forward, backing her against the wall of the stable. As she leaned back against it he followed, pinning her there with the weight of his own body.

He lost track of time in the flow of her mouth against his, of her scent - leather and sword oil and cinnamon, though he didn't know where the last came from except that it was her favorite smell - in his nose, the taste of the last thing she'd eaten invading his mouth (something sugary, probably filched from the kitchen), and the pliant feel of her lean, muscled form molding against his own. All of those things almost made him forget the lurking pain from his withdrawals were even there.

When she put pressure enough with her fingers on his head to indicate that he should stop, Cullen didn't want to. If he but could, he felt like he could kiss her forever.

He obeyed her silent request, however, and as he looked down at her, Meryell pressed a light kiss to the scar on his upper lip that sent a shudder down his spine.

“ _You_ ,” she said firmly, her voice very nearly a growl, “are so much more than that, Cullen Rutherford.”

Swallowing, he breathed, “And _you_ are so much more than whatever those fucking voices try to tell you, Meryell Verlen.”

Meryell flushed in response then she smiled, cocking her head to the side as she ran the fingers of one hand back through his hair. Likely completely _ruining_ all of the hard work he'd put into it during his morning routines but _hair be damned_. He was no longer on duty.

She _liked_ the fucking curls anyway.

“Knife-ear,” she breathed then and he stilled, his breath catching in his throat at the insult. “Bitch. Never anything more than an alienage brat. Not worthy of what I've got. Not even close to worthy of what I want.”

Cullen shook his head and whispered, “Lies. Every one.”

Meryell closed her eyes then and shuddered. When she reopened them and looked at him with _tears_ lurking at the edge of her eyes, he wanted to tell her what _he_ saw. The woman that _he_ witnessed every time she was around him. Who inspired him. Who he cared for beyond words.

Straightening up, Cullen pressed a finger over her lips and asked softly, “Where's your place, dear thief? This is no conversation we should be having behind the stable.”

Blinking at him several times, she abruptly broke into a beaming smile that had him grinning back at her simply from how _brilliant_ it was. Her hand - small and callused but _strong -_ slid into his and she said, “You're right. Come on. We have a bit of a ways to go.”

“Lead on,” he said warmly and Meryell practically _bolted_ away from him at that, dragging him stumbling after her. Literally the only thing that allowed him to keep up with her pace besides her hand in his was the mere fact that his legs were longer.

She led him on a winding path through Skyhold that started in the kitchens and went on a wild route through the lower levels that they hadn’t yet gotten to going over to figure out what to do with them or what sort of repairs they would need. Cullen tried to keep track of where they were going so he might find it again but even he couldn’t keep up with the circuitous route that she was taking him on. Which was ridiculous given the number of troop movements and supply lists that he had memorized. All that and remembering a path through their own damned fortress escaped him.

Then they were abruptly in a large open area that resembled that which was set aside for the eventual permanent location of Harritt and his forge after need for him in a more localized area was no longer required for repairs. It wasn’t quite the size of that location, probably half as wide and slightly more than that lengthwise, and it had a better view. Where the other sat over a currently frozen waterfall and saw only the sides of the mountains that rose up close, this cave-like space looked out towards the valley where the troops were located.

Blinking several times, Cullen took in the cushions that were piled up off to one side of the space where they had a perfect view of the camps. There was also a low table that looked like it had seen better days even before it was repaired hastily with a simple board to replace a missing leg, a box full of what looked like candles tucked underneath it, and a pile of books along with a plain little brass candle holder sat on top of the table. As expected, there were also two clay cups (had she already intended to bring him here?) along with a dark bottle that likely held her favorite whiskey. He immediately asked, “Just how long ago did you find this place?”

“Stumbled on it two weeks back,” she replied with a smile. Then Meryell tugged him along towards the area’s opening, which was edged with a stone railing like the other was but this one was obviously crumbling in places from disrepair. When they came to a stop, she pointed towards the distant camps and said, “You can _just_ make out the Fangs’ banners from here.”

Cullen hummed in response and stepped in behind her, wrapping his arms around her as he rested his chin on the crown of her head. “I see that,” he noted softly, easily making out the tan banners of the company against the icy white of everything else. He then pointed to the empty branches of the trees that were below the opening and said, “Once it gets warmer, you’ll probably see less when they get their leaves in fully.”

“Won’t matter.”

“Oh?”

“I know where they are,” Meryell replied firmly.

Chuckling, he muttered, “That _would_ be your response.” Then he felt her shift in his arms and lifted his head, letting her turn so she could slide her own arms around him before resting his chin back on her head again. When she sighed happily, he asked, “Better?”

She just nodded in response and he smiled, tilting his chin enough to kiss her hair.

“I’m glad.”

As she made an unintelligible noise in response, Cullen softly said, “I meant what I said.”

“So did I,” she replied. Meryell tilted her head back to look at him, her breath coming hard and hot against his cheek as she realized how close that made them since he hadn’t moved. He watched her throat move in a heavy swallow before she said in a quiet voice, “You are a brave man, a _good man_ despite everything you’ve been through.” When he started to open his mouth to protest, her fingers slid over his lips and he immediately ceased his efforts. Instead he met her eyes as she finished, “A lesser man would have never come back from the horrible place that Kinloch took you to. If anything, Cullen, cling to that. That you _came back_.”

Well.

If there was anything he couldn’t argue against, it was that. Maybe it had been far too late for most of the mages in Kirkwall but it _hadn’t_ been too late for the Inquisition mages or the templars. And he _had_ realized that he’d been treading hard along the line to becoming as much of a monster as he’d considered Meredith at the end. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone as far but...he had it in him. The fact that he knew that terrified him more than a little.

Deciding to turn the tables back on her in an attempt to regain control over the tight coil of emotion in his chest, Cullen lifted a hand to close his fingers over hers and pull them away from his mouth. But not before kissing her fingertips, an action that brought a beautiful blush across Meryell’s face.

“You,” he began firmly, “may have been born in an alienage but that doesn’t make you _anything less_ than anyone else. It took so much strength to survive losing your parents and making it without them until you found Folke. You are a beautiful, brilliant, and altogether _terrifying_ woman and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

She ducked her head in response to his words and _shook_ before she leaned heavily forward into his chest. Wrapping his arms around her in response, Cullen felt her continue to shake but this was a completely different kind of shaking. Frowning, he asked, “Are you...laughing?”

A snort erupted from her and he burst out laughing himself as she gasped, “N-no!”

“You’re _laughing_.”

Meryell smacked her hand hard against his chest and hissed, “I’m laughing at _us_ , you fucker.”

“Oh,” he said as seriously as he could while still laughing himself, “that makes me feel better.” When she scowled and hit him again, this time harder, Cullen caught her hand and brought it up to kiss her palm. As she flushed, he asked, “And why are you laughing at us, dear thief?”

“Because…” She paused to tug her hand away from him and wrapped it around the back of his neck, her fingers toying with the unruly curls at the base of his skull that he was never able to fully tame. “Look at us. _Listen to us._ We’re two of a damned kind with the same sort of fucking issues.”

“So we are.” He then smiled and noted softly, “But didn’t we already say that we were going to try and help each other with our issues?”

“We did,” she replied.

“There we go then.”

Snorting, Meryell shook her head at him before saying, “Well, thank you, good ser, for your help but I think I’ve had enough emotional help for the next month now. How about we sit over there in my rather fucking comfy pile of pillows, have a drink, and you tell me whatever it was that you wanted to talk about in the first place.”

Cullen immediately blanched as he remembered exactly what he’d wanted to talk about and when she commented, “I’m not sure I want to know now,” he shook his head.

“It’s not _bad_.”

“Well, fuck, I’m not sure I believe that from the way your face went a minute ago.”

Sighing, he pulled away from her and said, “Drink first, then I’ll tell you.” She looked dubious but then smiled and took his hand again, this time leading him across only the short distance to the cushions. As he settled half-upright on them, Cullen watched her as she poured the drinks and then grinned when she turned with the cups in her hands to scowl playfully at him.

“You were looking at my ass again,” she growled.

“Guilty,” he admitted, shifting the cup to his left hand so he could open the right up for her. As she settled against his side, Cullen pressed a kiss against her temple before growling, “It’s a _lovely_ ass. One I certainly hope that I have permission to look at all I want.”

Meryell tilted her head slightly in mock thought and hummed before saying, “Well…” As he arched his eyebrows in response, she turned to smile slyly up at him as he took a sip of his drink. “Only if _I_ can do the same to _you_.”

As he sputtered in response, she burst into bright laughter, continuing with it as he exclaimed, “You want...I don’t... _what?!_ ”

“Your ass,” she replied, still laughing. “Seriously, Cullen, _leather pants_ and a man in fighting shape? It makes for a lovely view.”

Staring at her for a moment, he finally shrugged, saying, “I will bow to the thief’s obviously greater experience with the back sides of my own gender.”

“ _Aaaaand?_ ”

“And, yes, you have permission to look at my ass all you want.”

When she let out a short cheer in response, they fell against each other laughing for several moments. By the time it finally died away and he was left sitting with his chin resting on top of her head, Cullen was starting to think he was going to avoid telling her. Then the word was in his throat, surging up and out, and he blurted it aloud before he could stop himself or give it further context.

“Inquisitor.”

“What?” asked Meryell.

Closing his eyes and cursing silently, he repeated, “Inquisitor.” Pulling away enough that he could look down at her, Cullen explained, “Leliana and Josephine put forth a recommendation to Cassandra and I to name an Inquisitor to lead the Inquisition.”

Looking confused, she said, “Alright?”

“You,” he said firmly. “They want to name _you_ Inquisitor.”

Meryell sat there for a long moment, her eyes wide and mouth dropped open into an _o_ of sheer surprise, and he cautiously took her cup from an abruptly limp hand just in case she dropped it. She blinked several times, her eyes unfocused, before giving herself a shake and letting out a snort. “You’re fucking joking,” she spat.

Cullen just shook his head and she reached for her cup, tossing its contents back in one swift motion. Meryell then leaned over to grab the bottle again and poured herself a nearly overflowing glass before tossing _that_ one back too. Despite knowing fully well that she could handle her alcohol, he found himself reaching out for the bottle in response to the abrupt motion. She held firm to it, however, and growled at him before snarling actual words at him.

“The _el’u’verelan_ and the _air’amelan_ are serious that that want to name _me_ fucking Inquisitor? Are they _insane_?” Throwing up her hands, she continued, “I mean, wasn’t it _enough_ of a colossal shit storm for Josephine to try and keep quiet that I’m a mercenary?”

“Perhaps Josephine wants a challenge. It’s not like you’ve helped her story much,” he commented with a smile, earning a casual shrug and a raspberry blown in his direction in response.

Meryell tugged at the bottle and Cullen arched an eyebrow before he relented his grip on it, watching her as she poured half a glass then sat the bottle back on the table. As she settled back into place against him, he tucked an arm around her and made idle circles against the fabric of her pants along her thigh.

“‘Course I don’t fucking help her,” she grumbled testily as she lifted her cup to take a drink. “I won’t deny what I damned well am unless it’s for a job and I’m getting sodding paid to do so. Or if I find it worth the fucking effort to act like whatever I have to. Plus, that was _her_ game, not mine, so no reason _for_ me to play it. It’s not like me being a merc has stopped folks from coming to join up.”

He couldn’t argue against that as he’d had several fighting men leave their posts to come join the Inquisition simply on the fact that they’d heard that the Fangs were involved with it and that rumor said the Herald was one of them. A fact that they’d straight away told him, Rylen, or whichever of his lieutenants had greeted them when they’d arrived in Haven.

“What the shit do I know about leading?”

Arching an eyebrow as he looked down at her, Cullen replied, “Do you _really_ want me to go over the particular qualifications? I already knew them but apparently Josephine thought it prudent to put them down in writing for...oh, what was it... _to have irrefutable proof that these deeds were done by her_.”

Meryell snorted and asked, “The fucked they do, go get proof in writing from folk?” He kept his expression flat and impassive in response and just stared at her until she looked up to catch his eyes when he didn’t answer. Immediately she started sputtering and exclaimed, “They fucking _did_. Andraste’s dimpled ass, you’re fucking _serious_.”

“Cassandra brought a packet with all of the papers to my office,” he explained. “Apparently Josephine, at least, has had this in mind for some time considering she’s been far too busy to organize that much along with everything else she’s been doing.”

“Don’t say that,” she scolded. “I swear the woman sleeps less than you do.”

Ignoring the jab at his sleeping habits - which were worse than they had been in Haven but considerably better than they’d used to be before the Inquisition and she knew it - Cullen continued, “I can’t say that I faulted their logic in naming you Inquisitor.” When Meryell started to open her mouth, her expression furious, he held up his cup-laden hand with one finger extended. “Hear me out, dear thief.”

She glared at him, her jawline tight with anger and her eyes fiercely focused on his face, then nodded just slightly to indicate that she would.

Taking a deep breath and cursing Cassandra slightly in that _he_ had to be the one to have this conversation with her - though she probably would have _murdered_ anyone else unless it was Folke and _he_ probably would have murdered whoever tried to get _him_ to do it - Cullen began.

“ _You_ freed the mages in Redcliffe from a Tevinter Magister. _You_ brought an end to the fighting in the Hinterlands. _You_ made the decision to help the people there. _You_ made the recommendation that I go to Therinfal to try and recruit what templars I could.”

“Anyone could have done those things,” she growled between bared teeth. “And I had _help_.”

Shaking his head, Cullen asked, “Who decided to help that woman in the Hinterlands whose husband had been killed by templars? Who decided to recruit Sera? Blackwall? The Iron Bull?” At the mention of the last three it looked like she had abruptly swallowed something sour because he knew full well that she absolutely _could not_ argue with him about those. She'd made the decision to recruit each and every one of them, though the Iron Bull had had all of their input in some fashion given that he came with the Chargers.

Meryell then hissed, “ _We_ decided to do most of that field work shit.”

“Because _you_ thought it was a good plan.”

She curled a lip in response then her entire expression fell as her shoulders slumped. “Fuck,” she muttered before turning her head to lean it against his shoulder with her eyes closed. He tightened his arm around her as she softly added, “I'm just a _merc_ , Cullen. I'm a thief and a liar and I'm pretty fucking good at killing people when it calls for it. Not a damned leader. That's not even _half_ what you want in a fucking leader.”

Sighing, he turned his head to press his lips against her forehead in a slow kiss. Then he whispered into her skin, “We'd classify Arnald as all of those things as well, _ve-hen-an-ar-rah_. You've told me that the whole company calls him one of the best Captains they've had since inception.” Her shoulders tensed slightly underneath his arm at his use of the Elven word but not in the heavy, wire-drawn-tight way that generally signaled fear or flight. It was more the drawing up to a fight sort of tense, like steadying oneself for a confrontation.

“You fucker,” she muttered, “I never wanted this fucking shit.”

“I know,” he breathed back.

“I don't know _anything_ about actually leading. Other than Arnald, we don't have shit for a rank system other than if someone knows more shit than you do.”

Kissing her forehead again, he said, “That's what _we're_ here for, dear thief. To help you. We'd be your advisors. You could even name Folke or Arnald as one if you really wanted to.”

That brought a snort out of her before she muttered, “Better make it Arnald. Folke would just make snide comments under his breath and cast little spells in order to make Cassandra or you twitch at blatant magical displays. I know, I watched him do that fucking shit during company meetings for _years_.”

Laughing at the idea of the hedge mage causing chaos in the middle of what he was certain was supposed to be a serious meeting (since that seemed the sort Arnald would run), Cullen began, “So…”

Meryell let out a huff of breath before she replied, “I’ll fucking _think_ about it.”

“That's all I ask, Meryell.”

She hummed in response before tilting her head back to butt his chin with her nose, saying softly, “Thank you for telling me. I'd have fucking pitched a bitch if they'd sprung that fuckwhat on me without warning.”

Chuckling, Cullen said, “I told Cassandra the same thing. With less vulgarity, of course.”

“'Course you did, you fucking know me. Maker's aching cock, I really don't have enough alcohol down here to deal with this shit. I only brought the one bottle and it's already half gone.”

"I think I can assist the thief in such a thing.”

“Oh?” she asked airily as she leaned back enough to look up at him. “Can you now, good ser?”

Cullen grinned and replied, “Perhaps. For a price.”

“Oh-ho!” Meryell exclaimed. “We're extracting _costs_ now. And for alcohol, too. I'll make a mercenary out of you yet at this rate, Cullen.”

“Do you want to hear my price, dear thief?”

She nodded and tipped her chin back in a simplified _bring it_ motion that he was familiar with from his own training days as the gesture was common amongst most people who fought. Smiling, Cullen leaned forward so their faces were ever so close together, the side of his nose right up against hers, and immediately heard her breathing hitch and become heavy. His groin immediately tightened with pressure in response and he resisted the abrupt urge to groan as it felt like his pants shrunk.

“What does ser demand in return for his services?” she asked in a throaty sort of purr that didn't help him _any_.

“A kiss.”

“Is that all?” Meryell queried softly as she tilted her head just enough to bring her lips ghosting across his. He barely registered the familiar double twitch of her ears or the dilation of her own eyes that gave away her own arousal far better than her breathing did through the haze coming over his own brain. Her fingers against his as she pried his cup out of his hands was also a distant impression as she sat it _somewhere_ without moving away from him.

Humming in reply and resisting the very strong urge his body had to just fling her down into the cushions, Cullen replied, “Perhaps more...if the thief is willing.” Things probably wouldn't go beyond where they had anytime before but this time they would be interspersed with the sensation of lips and tongues against each other and that made the whole thing _different._

She smiled in reply and kissed him lightly, just a brief peck before she pulled away again. “Mayhaps the thief will simply _take_ what she wants,” she said lowly before lifting a hand to his cheek, running her fingers across his face and then down his throat to his chest in a motion that left an almost fiery sensation in it's wake and a tightness in his throat. Then she abruptly moved, swinging up and onto his lap, and both of her hands were at the back of his neck before sliding up into his hair. As he lifted his own hands to grip her hips, she asked, “What will ser do if she does that?”

“Surrender willingly to her wiles,” he replied breathlessly, his heart pounding in his ears. Then her lips were on his again, just the lightest of touches, and Cullen closed his eyes as he said with a slight whine, “ _Meryell._ I...”

“Shh,” she replied before her fingers curled into his hair to hold tight and her tongue was in his mouth. When Meryell pulled away with a wicked smile on her lips, he briefly entertained the idea that withdrawal might be making him see things. But even his best imaginings weren't like this. They weren't warm and pliant underneath his hands, didn't lean into him to press forehead to forehead, didn't taste like sweets and whiskey, didn't smell like cinnamon and leather and oil. That and the migraine that had started plaguing him was gone, the potion from Gil having done it's job at least for a little while.

Cullen then refocused on her as she said softly, “I think you owe me a bottle now, Cullen.”

He just nodded slowly in response because he was a man drowning, losing himself, losing _everything_ in this woman. She'd heard about Kirkwall from his own lips and knew about Kinloch just enough to _guess_ and _she was still there_. He wasn't anywhere close to being worthy of her but _damn it_ he would try.

 _Until she is Inquisitor_ , hissed that traitorous part of his brain. _Then what? What happens when she's your superior?_

Refusing to think of _that_ , Cullen hissed, “We'll call it two to make up for me making you panic earlier.” When she smiled, all broad and bright, he tugged her fully down into his lap at that same time as she leaned in to take his mouth again. He promptly lost himself in the sensation of her body molding against his, of the heat between her thighs pressing down against the aching bulge in his pants, and endeavored to let nothing distract him from her for the rest of the day. Even if all he got tonight was nothing more than the familiar feel of her hands roaming his skin and his own on hers, it would be enough.

_She was enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven/Elvhen Translations:**  
> 
> air - coin  
> amelan - keeper  
> serannas - thanks  
> lasa adahl su nar masa - shove a tree up your ass


	22. “So what exactly does me being named Inquisitor mean?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell gets her first introduction to the job of Inquisitor, flirts with Cullen, has a bit of conversation with everyone, and then has a tiny breakdown when she gets reminded of something from the past. And that's only _half_ of what happens on this particular day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're here, at 104k. It only goes up from here, guys.

“So,” Meryell drawled as she dragged a stool out from under the war table and sat down on it, “what _exactly_ does me being named Inquisitor mean?”

Across the table Leliana and Josephine glanced at each other while Cullen folded one arm across his chest, bracing the elbow of the other against his vambrace so he could use his hand to cover the smile on his face. From behind her, she heard Cassandra snort and knew exactly what the woman was thinking as she'd discussed this whole thing with her and Cullen (together and separately) before she'd even _really_ considered taking it.

Both had expressed faith that she could handle it and swore up and down that both of the other advisors expected her to likely give them mostly free reign. A fucking bad call in general, that was. Inexperienced at leading, sure, but she wasn't a fucking _idiot_. And it turned out that a decade in the Fangs had taught her a lot about leading even with their chain of command pretty much consisting of Arnald and Zarru (and the former second, Noralt, who'd had the position when Meryell had joined up). Until she'd talked it out with Cassandra and Cullen, she hadn't realized just how much she'd already known; most of it just seemed like good common sense to her. She wasn't about to let anyone get away with whatever they wanted, not even Cullen.

The paperwork was going to be a fucking _bitch_ though. She dreaded it already.

“ _Well?_ ” she asked, arching an eyebrow expectantly.

Josephine coughed before replying, “Well, Inquisitor…”

“Fuck sake, _really?_ ” asked Meryell at the new title, completely interrupting the other woman. “No. _Fuck no_. I'm putting my damned foot down right fucking now.” Wheeling around to look at all of them in turn, she slammed her hand down hard on the surface of the table as she came to a stop. “I won't have any more of this _shit_ ,” she growled.

Pointing behind her at the ridiculously large closed doors, she plowed onward. “I'll be _Inquisitor_ or _Herald_ or _Andraste's Fucking Wiper_ out there. Not in fucking here. Not to _you_. You can call me that outside these fucking doors - though I'd prefer you did it only when we're actually out in the damned public or have some piss skirts here - but _in here_ I wanted to hear my fucking name.”

Josephine looked outright appalled, Cullen looked like he was _barely_ holding back outright laughter given the furious shaking of his shoulders, Cassandra _did_ laugh out loud, and Leliana looked like she'd swallowed something sour.

“But,” began Josephine, “protocol…”

“ _Hang protocol_ ,” spat Meryell. “I'll bend to it _out there_ , Josephine, but in this keep I don't want to hear it, not from any of you, unless some noble with a stick up their arse is nearby. There, that's my first ruling as Inquisitor, if I have to make it that for you lot to do it.”

“May we inquire as to _why_ we are hanging protocol?” asked Leliana as she folded her arms, her voice practically _dripping_ with the concept of hanging Meryell instead. At least that's what that tone coming from the _el’u’verelan_ sounded like to her.

Sighing, she planted both hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward onto it. “Because,” she began slowly, “I'm a fucking lowborn alienage brat who never gave a shit about titles until I got told _this here's the Captain and his word is law_ by Folke. I never had a title till now and I sure as _shit_ never wanted one. So…”

Taking a pause to breathe deeply and close her eyes, Meryell asked, “So, can you _please_ call me by my actual name and _not_ any of the titles I absolutely fucking _loathe_ unless otherwise necessary?”

“On one condition.”

Opening her eyes, Meryell stared hard at Leliana and deliberately twitched her right ear.

“Which is?”

The spymaster smiled then replied, “Tell us why it makes you uncomfortable.”

Narrowing her gaze at the older woman, she answered in a short, clipped tone, “For the same reason that Cassandra hates being reminded she’s actually royalty and Cullen doesn’t appreciate anyone calling him a templar. _It’s not me._ It will never _be_ me. I am _me_ and I won’t be _shit_ for anyone else unless I’m fleecing them for everything they fucking own.”

Leliana gave her a long, assessing look for a moment then tipped her head forward just slightly, her eyes still remaining focused despite the shift in her orientation. “I can...respect...your reasoning. Then, _Meryell_ , shall we begin?”

Flashing a tight smile at the spymaster, Meryell turned her gaze to Josephine and the Antivan woman dipped into a motion that was something between a curtsey and a bow. “As you will, Inquisitor,” she said with a sly smile and a gleam in her eyes that reminded Meryell that the _seemingly_ unassuming woman could be just as conniving as the redhead. She'd been a bard herself once, after all. “It shall be Meryell from now on. Though I hope you will excuse the occasional slip.”

Nodding sharply, Meryell straightened on her seat and turned to look at Cassandra. The dark-haired woman just arched an eyebrow before she smiled and inclined her head as she murmured, “I will endeavour to do as you ask, my friend.”

“I’ll take it,” replied Meryell as she shifted back around. She then smiled and asked again, “Then let’s start again. What the fuck does being Inquisitor mean?”

Three hours later she left the war room with her arm tucked into Cullen’s and the impression that being Inquisitor wasn’t _at all_ different than being Herald. It came with fucking paperwork since it was an official position instead of a largely symbolic one amongst the Inquisition and the stipulation that she periodically cast judgment upon those who’d stood against them and _hadn’t_ died in a bloody mess. That, by-and-large, seemed to be the only difference.

“You look deep in thought,” he commented as they passed through the door that separated Josephine’s office from the main hall. She noted absently that he was steering her across the space that was still largely filled with stacks of wood, piled up bolts of cloth, crates of foodstuff and other amenities, and whatever else had been carted into the keep without a place yet to go, towards the open doorway that led to Chuckles’ rotunda and the library.

Snorting, Meryell replied, “Not really _deep_. Just thinking about how _not_ different being Inquisitor is.”

Cullen chuckled before saying, “I wouldn’t count my mabari too soon, dear thief. It’s still early.”

“Maker’s cock, _count my mabari_ ,” she mused in response, shaking her head. “Fuck, I haven’t heard that since I was still with the gang.”

“Not a lot of Fereldens in the Fangs?”

Shrugging while she waved at Varric at the table he’d seemingly claimed in front of the hall’s fire as soon as it’d been set up, she answered, “Thinking on it, not really. I mean, there are some but it’s not like we all get together and have parties. Folke was born in Ferelden _technically_ but he’s been serving with mercs for so long that he’s like the Captain, bit of an amalgam of everyone in the company. That and his claim of his mother being Chasind and all. I mean, we’ve got a bit of everything so I _sometimes_ hear Ferelden phrases but not enough that it’s obvious. Maybe it’s a regional thing.”

“Except South Reach is nowhere near Honnleath,” pointed out Cullen as they passed through Solas’ rotunda, though the somber visage of the mage was absent at the moment.

Meryell looked up at him at that and asked, “Were your parents both from Honnleath?”

He frowned at that, looking thoughtful as they went through the last doors separating them from the outside. As they strode across the newly repaired walkway that led to his tower, Cullen replied, “Now that I think of it, Ma wasn’t a local girl. Pa always told us that Rutherfords had been in Honnleath for _Ages_ \- yes, with a capital - but Ma rarely spoke of her family.”

“Maybe that’s it.”

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “Honestly I don't remember where I picked that phrase up. It might have been from back home but it might also have been at the Tower or during training, since we were sent to Denerim for the bulk of it. Maybe I served with someone from South Reach.”

“Whatever way,” she noted airily before he could get distracted trying to figure it out, “we both happen to know it.” Meryell then cocked her head to the side, looking sideways up at him as he opened the door of his tower for her, and asked, “And do you know that you get this little _twang_ of an accent when you say _Ma_ and _Pa_?”

As his face immediately flushed in response, she laughed and spun away ahead of him, grabbing his hands and dragging him into his office. “No, no!” she exclaimed. “I like it.”

“You _like_ it,” he muttered, shaking his head as he kicked the door shut behind them. “Of course you do.”

“And why not?” asked Meryell as she paced a step forward, moving their joined hands up to where she could steer him backwards. He obliged with a smile, backing up until his shoulders hit the door and she leaned against his breastplate. “I rather like imagining you as the country farm boy with wild curly hair.”

Cullen just chuckled then asked, “Should I imagine you then as a little girl in pigtails?”

“With dirty knees from climbing things.”

He started to open his mouth, a wicked gleam in his eyes, and Meryell fully expected it to be an utterly _filthy_ comment he was about to make. Then one of the side doors opened and one of the soldiers that served as one of his main aides strode in with a writing board piled up with papers.

“Commander…! _Maker's breath!_ ”

Turning her head, she nearly laughed as she saw the young man was hiding his beet red face behind his board. It wasn't even as if they'd been fucking doing anything. Literally the only not innocent thing going on right then was going to be whatever she was now _not_ going to be hearing coming out of Cullen's mouth. She managed to hold herself back from laughing, though. _Barely._

Instead she smiled slyly up at Cullen and freed her hands from his before tip-toeing two fingers in a walk up his breastplate. “So,” she purred, “I hear the tavern is having its official opening tonight. Inner circle and advisors gets first dibs at the stores according to Flissa.”

Though his neck was red from embarrassment at being caught like they were - even as innocent as it was! - he smirked down at her. “Is that a broad hint at where I should be tonight, dear thief?” he asked, his voice low and warm as he ghosted his fingers over her waist, just barely touching her.

“Perhaps.”

“Hmm. Well...judging by what Jim has there, I get the feeling I'll be late.”

Meryell just smiled brightly in response and said, “Better late than never.” She then arched up onto her toes and he bent forward enough that she could press a light kiss against his bottom lip. “Would the incentive of walking me home be one to get you there faster?” she asked.

 _Walking her home_ meant the possibility of further drinks in her tent in the upper courtyard right outside the tavern and wandering hands and warm kisses and the absolute certainty of them squeezing into her cot to sleep heart-to-heart.

Cullen touched a leather-clad finger to her chin, putting enough pressure to have her arching up into another soft kiss, and murmured, “I am convinced, dear thief. I will see you tonight.”

“Holding you to that, _vhen'an'ara_ ,” she replied before turning to walk out the still open door Jim had entered through. He lowered his clipboard in time to see her and Meryell grinned as he _squeaked_ her new title and went bolting across the room. Cullen's dorky bray of a laugh - the one she'd honestly fallen a little bit in love with in what seemed such a long ago conversation on the barrels outside of Haven - followed her out the door.

Shutting the door behind her with a smile, Meryell laughed herself silly all the way around what had been repaired of Skyhold’s battlements.

Being Inquisitor wasn't that different from being Herald _at all._

* * *

“Back already, Swears?” asked Varric as she popped back into the main hall. He leaned back in his chair as he blew dry the ink on whatever he’d been writing and carefully set his quill aside before he fully turned to look at her with an arched eyebrow. “I figured you and Curly would be _busy_.”

Meryell just smiled and shook her head at the dwarf’s obvious innuendo. Tugging one of the heavy wooden chairs out from under the table, she collapsed into it and propped her elbows on the table with her chin resting on her closed fists. Varric’s bet about them getting together had been rather properly smashed by the events of Haven as every location that had been bet on by those involved as to where they would make kissy faces (Sera’s words) at each other was now under several feet of snow and rock.

Given that no one had even _bet_ on the Chantry - and, again, it being buried along with the circumstances of _nearly dying_ \- Varric had expunged that particular bet and let those that had cast bets redo theirs at the same cost as their previous if they so chose.

Of course now the bet was not where they would kiss since that had happened but where and when they would _do the nasty_ (Sera’s turn-of-phrase, again). Literally the only thing that was stopping Meryell from stealing Varric’s list was that she didn’t steal from friends unless they deserved it.

That and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what the Iron Bull had come up with. Or Chuckles. Or, Maker fucking forbid, what any of the Fangs had come up with because most of them couldn't withstand the temptation of putting down a bet.

Varric, of course, gave her prodding questions every time she actually had a moment to sit down with him nowadays. It was _overly_ obvious and she played along on the rare occasion with a few comments that seemed like she was about to reveal something juicy before completely smashing it to pieces. Those were rare because half the time she got dragged off only moments after she’d sat down to have a breather.

Today, though. Today she was _fucking free_.

So she propped her chin on her fists and gave him a shit-eating grin as she said, “Of course we were busy, we were having a war meeting.”

“ _After_ the war meeting, sweetheart,” he pressed teasingly.

“We were having a conversation.”

“Better be havin’ a conversation with yer bodies,” commented Sera as she abruptly plopped onto the surface of the table, sprawling out across it. Her impact very nearly upset Varric’s ink pot and he looked panicked for a moment, reaching for it before realizing that Cole was suddenly there with it in his hands. The boy just smiled and sat it back down before he was gone again, as if he’d never been there at all.

Shaking her head, Meryell said, “We were having a conversation with our mouths.” Realizing a moment later how _that_ could be taken as Sera’s head popped up, she hurriedly added, “With _words_ , Sera.”

“Aww. Does the jackboot need pointers about how to handle your lady bits?”

“Andraste’s dripping cunt, _no_.”

The younger elf cackled brightly at her curse and propped herself up on her elbows as she crowed, “Should be _your_ dripping cunt, Quizzy!”

Meryell clipped her teeth shut over her immediate response of _oh, it does that just fine_ and turned her attention back to Varric as she felt her cheeks flush with a mix of sudden heat and a smidge of embarrassment. “So,” she drawled, “tavern’s opening up tonight. Flissa is going to do the official naming and everything.”

The dwarf hummed in response before he asked, “Should I get my cards ready for another round of Diamondback? Or are we going to go for Wicked Grace this time?”

“I think Folke was hoping for another round of Diamondback now that we’ve the opportunity. He wants to try to win some of his dignity back from the last game.”

Varric just snorted at that, shaking his head. “Swears, your dear dad didn’t have a _shred_ of dignity after that game was done. He’ll have to work awful hard to win it back.” He then winked and added, “Invite Rylen and we’ll fleece him for all he’s worth. The Captain’s apparently a _terrible_ distraction for him.”

Meryell just laughed and said, “ _Baba_ can’t resist an accent...and I can’t resist watching him embarrass the shit out of himself. I’ll see if I can find him on my rounds today.” Turning to look at Sera, she asked, “Are you planning on showing up tonight?”

“For drinks? _Fuck yeah_.” Sera then pushed herself up into an upright position, her knees spread wide across the edge of the table as she bent to prop her forearms on them. Grinning wickedly, she added, “More chance to tease you and your Cully-Wully too. Always up for that.”

“Buttercup,” drawled Varric with a wry smile, “you're always up for teasing anyone if you have the chance.”

The elf just grinned at that.

“That's ‘cause people make themselves easy targets. Mostly. Quiz and Cully are just good fun since they blush so hard, like we don't all already know they've been getting handsy in the corners.”

“Where our hands go involving each other is no one else's concern,” Meryell noted a little snippily. She was used to the sort of ribbing like what her friends put out given her years with the Fangs but Cullen hadn't even _bedded_ a woman until recent years due to everything he’d been through at Kinloch. He wasn't used to that and so she tried her best to keep her silence on their actual affairs while making it a point that what they did wasn't for anyone else to know.

“Of course, Swears,” assured Varric. He then waved both of his hands at them as he went on, “Now off with both of you. I've got some chapters I need to get finished to send to my editor before he gets frustrated and sends the Carta after me.”

Sera blinked, stopping in the middle of jumping off the table, before she scowled and grumbled, “Sounds like a twat.”

“Obviously you've never worked with anyone from the Merchant’s Guild, Buttercup. They're _all_ twats.”

Smirking as she rose from her chair, Meryell pointed out, “Varric, aren't _you_ a member of the Merchant's Guild?”

He just smiled broadly in response as he replied, “I'm just special, Swears.”

“You're _special_ alright,” commented Sera with a laugh. “Later, Quizzy! Tonight we'll show your jackboot how to please a lady!” With that she was gone, disappearing in a flurry of red and bright yellow plaidweave, and Meryell shook her head several times after her backside disappeared out the wide open doors of the hall.

Varric chuckled, saying, “Buttercup’s something else.”

“She’d actually fit in right fucking well with the Fangs,” Meryell commented. “The archers love her already and she almost out shoots all of them. One word about me and Cullen would get her right in the middle of the bets and teasing that they put out and I swear half the company would declare her an honorary member.” She then clapped her hands together and added, “Anyway, I’ve got rounds to make. I’ll see you tonight, Varric.”

“I’ll be there, Swears.”

Smiling at him, she nodded and turned away, debating whether she should head across the hall to Josephine’s office to invite her or turn right through the door next to Varric’s table to hit up Chuckles (who probably wouldn’t come anyway) and Dorian since his new haunt seemed to be the library. Deciding that starting with Josephine made more sense, Meryell headed that way and poked her head into the office.

The ambassador was hard at work at her desk, dark head bent over stacks of parchment as she stroked the end of her quill idly against her cheek. She then dipped it into her ink pot and made some kind of notation on the parchment before she looked up and saw her. “Inquisitor,” she greeted and Meryell immediately rolled her eyes before stepping into the room.

“You’re seriously going to never call me by my name unless we’re in that room, aren’t you?” she asked as she strode over to the desk, planting her fists on her hips as she scowled down at the other woman.

Josephine just smiled before replying, “It would be improper for me to not call you your title amongst those who come to visit Skyhold, Inquisitor. The walls have ears when nobles are within them.”

Snorting, Meryell noted, “The walls have ears when _Leliana_ is in them, which means they _always_ have fucking ears.”

“Also true.” She then shifted the parchment around on her desk and put her quill away before folding her hands together and resting them on the desk. “So, what can I do for you, Inquisitor?”

Rolling her eyes at the title but knowing that she wasn’t going to get anywhere with the woman beyond her little victory this morning in the war room, Meryell replied, “Nothing Inquisition official. Just that the official opening and naming of the tavern’s tonight and Flissa’s declared that our lot get first shot at the stores.” When she got no immediate response - not even a bat of the eyes - she added with a smirk, “Varric’s planning another round of Diamondback. Though I get the feeling that the goal of the game is going to be how much more money and dignity we can make my _baba_ lose than anything else.”

Josephine chuckled, a soft little sound, and replied, “Given the direction our last game was going before I left and what I heard of the aftermath, I’m not sure there is much further he can fall.” She then sighed and gestured at the papers on her desk before adding, “I shall see how much of this I can get through, Inquisitor, and perhaps make an appearance.”

“No promise needed, Josephine. I’m just informing everyone that there’s drinks tonight.”

The other woman nodded at that and said, “I shall try, Inquisitor.”

Meryell just tipped her head forward in a nod at that, saying, “I’ll let you get back to work then. You’re probably saving all of our fucking hides, anyway, so best not to interrupt that.” That brought a merry little laugh out of the ambassador before the woman waved her away and she went with a smile. With that settled, she headed immediately across the hall and entered the rotunda below the library.

Spying Solas up on his scaffolding, she started to open her mouth then immediately clipped it shut when her eyes drifted past him and saw that a good part of the mural he’d been working on since he’d claimed the area for himself was actually starting to come together. The art style was a kind she’d never seen before, though the only art she’d really been introduced to previously was the sketches that some of the company were good at (mostly landscaping and building plans) and the occasional job they got to filch a painting. It was simplistic but even her untrained eyes could see that he was _good_.

What he had almost finished was all yellows and oranges with some grays and blacks. There was a half circle of darkness high up towards the rotunda’s ceiling with a red orb inside of it and around the circle were more than a dozen eyes. Below those, a field of gold curved downward in an arch before there was a space and another line of gold from which burst several of what someone unfamiliar might mistake as the rays of a sun. The beam of golden light that he was depicting lancing downward from the orb, however, down through the orange sky that was littered with an obvious _rain_ of yellow triangles, was unmistakable. Even though she hadn’t seen it, didn’t remember anything but the aftermath, she’d heard enough people describe what had happened to know what it was.

“ _The Breach_ ,” she breathed and the elf looked up then from where he was working on the grays and blacks at the sides of the mural - _mountains_ , she realized, as they made the obvious valley that the Temple of Sacred Ashes had once stood in.

“Yes, _da’len_.”

“You’re painting….what’s happened?”

He just tilted his head to the side before shrugging slightly, just a simple lift of his shoulders, and replied, “I am.”

Meryell frowned and asked, “Why?”

Solas pursed his lips before he gestured with a paint covered hand towards the walls as he asked, “What will be left when the Inquisition is gone? What information will we leave behind? Were we tyrants? Saviors? Will what we did remain in truth or will it be changed as most history is when it is passed down?”

She blinked at him then leaned her shoulder against one of the upright poles of his scaffolding, folding her arms as she replied, “Well, shit, Chuckles. You’re having the hard thoughts today.”

“I always have those, _da’len_ _._ ”

“Maker’s cock,  _hahren_ , you need to get laid or something to loosen up that stick up your ass.”

He sighed in response to that and Meryell rolled her eyes before she said, “I dunno what’ll be left after. Fuck, Chuckles, I never wanted this shit in the first place.”

“That may be,” he replied. “Now that you are here, however, it should be something you consider.”

Sighing, she grumbled, “I hate the fucking long game.” Then Meryell tilted her head back and found him looking down at her over the edge of the scaffolding. Scowling slightly, she asked, “So why _murals_?”

Solas just smiled and replied, “Have you never been to the Dales, _da’len_?”

“Rode through a few times on a job. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Did you not see the remnants of what was once our civilization there?”

Meryell blinked and then pushed herself away from the scaffolding, turning to look fully up at him. She then darted her eyes past him to the mural and breathed, “ _History._ The old elves, they painted the histories on the walls.”

Solas just nodded and she asked, “So you’re going to paint everything here. The basis of what we did.”

“Very good, _da’len_ _._ ”

Snorting, Meryell said, “Evune told me about them when we were travelling through there the first time. Gave me the whole history lesson of the Dales - Dalish and human - since I’d never heard it before. We saw what was left of one after a battle with some stupid bandits who thought they could take us but you couldn’t make out what it was really since most of it had been worn away by the elements. I wouldn't even guess you were doing the same thing with what little was left of it to compare.”

He hummed in response then turned back away from her, her ears picking up the subtle sound of him grinding whatever it was that he used to make his paints. She'd spent enough time dozing in the mage's work room back at the Fangs' headquarters to recognize someone at work with a mortar and pestle. "And what," he asked after a long moment of silence, "brings you to me today?"

"Making rounds to let everyone know that the tavern's opening up tonight and our lot get first dibs at the stores."

She heard him go still and Meryell snorted before adding, "Flissa's invitation extended to _all_ of the inner circle. Which includes you despite the stick up your ass, Chuckles."

"Ah."

"That a _'fuck no'_?"

The other elf sighed heavily before he replied, "A _simple_ 'no' will suffice, _da’len_ , but I will not attempt to stop you from adding your particular...flavor...to everything. I respectfully decline the invitation."

Shrugging, Meryell airily said, "No skin off my tits."

He made an awkward sputtering noise in response to that phrase and she laughed before making her break away from him, heading towards the stairs that led up to the second level of the rotunda where the library was. She paused for a moment to breathe in the smell of the books while lamenting the likely permanent loss of her own little collection back in Haven before she started stalking through the floor on the hunt for Dorian in one of the alcoves. Eventually she did find him, curled up with his feet crossed over the arm of a rather plush looking chair and a glass of wine dangling from one hand as he propped the book he was reading up on his knees.

"And what brings you to the library, darling?" drawled the mage without looking up as he turned a page. "Are we to finally strike out from this lovely new location of ours and end up with spiders in our beds again?"

Chuckling at the reminder of the once she'd taken the mage out with her before Haven had been shit kicked into oblivion, Meryell replied, "No, that's for three days from now with me, you, Cassandra, and Sera. _Tonight_ we get first dibs at Flissa's new stores in the tavern."

 _That_ had the mage looking up at her, his eyebrows arching slightly, and definite interest in his eyes.

"Ah, so the grand opening is tonight?"

"Yup," she answered with a sharp pop of the last letter.

"Well, I will certainly be there, darling. Never let it be said that a Pavus didn't live up to the expectation that he would arrive somewhere."

Snorting, she jibed, "Or turn up where there's alcohol?"

Dorian just smiled before replying, "That is only a glorious bonus, my dear. I certainly couldn't live with myself if I left everyone without the wonderful presence that is me. Everyone would be far too wounded to continue on with their lives and certainly too heartbroken to drink anything or enjoy themselves tonight."

Meryell flashed him a shit-eating grin at that before saying with a laugh, "You're so full of your fucking self."

"And you _adore_ it, darling," he said with a chuckle. "I'll see you tonight and we will have far too much fun to be legal." Then the mage waggled his eyebrows before saying suggestively, "And perhaps finally get you and your dashing Commander actually into bed together, hmm?"

Fighting a flush, she just sang out, "Promises, promises," as she walked away towards the stairs that led up to the rookery. Normally she wouldn't have even considered inviting the spymaster to anything remotely like the goings on of the night but Flissa had made a point that _everyone_ was invited, so she was going to get _everyone_.

Mounting the last of the stairs up into the dark top of the rotunda, Meryell looked around for the redhead and found her on the far side of the room. She was bent with a bowed head in front of a small Andrastian shrine, eyes closed and mouth moving silently, and Meryell promptly turned away to give the woman privacy. Religious she wasn't and she spouted what was considered blasphemy half the time but she wasn't going to fucking shit on anyone else's beliefs.

She still respected her mother's own adherence to the faith too much to do that.

When she finally heard the shift of leather and cloth against the wooden boards that made up the top-most floor, she turned back and found the spymaster regarding her with hooded eyes. "I was not expecting it to be you," commented the older woman in a low voice as she crossed back over to the desk that was clear except for a small stack of missives that had obviously come via the hands of scouts or attached to one of the ravens given their small, slightly tatter-edged state.

Meryell just shrugged before saying, "I'm just making the rounds because Flissa practically made it an order that I talk to everyone."

Leliana arched her eyebrows as she sat down in the chair next to her desk, her back deliberately to the wall and not the glass panes of the nearby window. "And this is after you have been made Inquisitor?" she questioned, an odd tone to her voice.

"If you seriously expect me to fucking run by rank and file after a decade in one of the loosest organized mercenary companies in the whole of Thedas, you're one mabari less a kaddis. Our only rank is the _Captain_. Other than that, you follow whoever knows more than you do, even if they're the newest recruit." She then paused before adding, "Or whoever shouts the loudest. Depends on the hour of the day, really."

The spymaster slowly arched an eyebrow at her before saying, "I am truly uncertain how your company has stayed together this long if that is the manner of your organizational skills but...perhaps it speaks most highly of the Captain's leadership."

"S'been the way it's been for as long as the oldest can remember," noted Meryell airily. She then rolled her eyes and said, "Anyway, not what I came up here for. Flissa's opening the tavern tonight and she said that advisors and inner circle get first dibs at the stores. Hence me."

"I see."

"Come or not, I'm just extending the fucking invitations 'cause it's what I got told to do."

Leliana inclined her head slightly and said slowly, "I will consider it, Inquis...ah. _Meryell_."

Out of all of them, she hadn't expected the _spymaster_ to correct herself. Or to actually _do as she'd asked_ that morning and call her by her name. The older woman caught onto that immediately and smirked, tilting her head slightly to the side in a fashion that wasn't far off from the mannerisms of her birds.

"You were not expecting that," she noted.

"From you?" Meryell said. " _Fuck no_. You've hated me from day one."

In response, the redhead immediately laced her fingers together atop the desk and leaned forward to brace her elbows along its edge. "I," she began slowly, "may have... _disliked_ you..." Meryell scoffed in the middle of the sentence, interrupting her briefly but not actually saying anything in response. "...but that has changed over these past months."

"Since when?"

"Since Redcliffe," replied the spymaster shortly. "Though more so since Haven fell."

Frowning down at the other woman, Meryell crossed her arm across her chest and asked, "What changed?"

Leliana just smiled before answering, "I think, perhaps, it is something similar to what you saw in me in that alternate future. We each saw someone else in the other, someone we could perhaps _respect_. When you went out to face Corypheus without a guarantee of coming back..." The other woman paused and there was suddenly _pain_ in her face, an old pain that Meryell could actually put words to.

It was a pain that tasted like ash and felt like tearing your own heart out of your chest.

The pain of a _loss_ so great, it nearly tore you apart.

Shit, when she'd come up here, she hadn't expected to get into _this_ with the spymaster. She sure as fuck didn't expect to feel sympathy for the older woman but she did. She knew that hurt.

"It reminded you of something," she pressed softly.

The spymaster just smiled sadly before she looked away, out the window next to her through the few panes of glass that weren't stained in muted colors or dulled to blur visibility through them. "Someone," Leliana replied in just as soft a voice. She then stiffened, her shoulders drawing up into an obviously protective and stiff gesture, and Meryell knew the moment was done.

She wondered, though, who that _someone_ was.

Obviously, judging by Leliana's earlier reaction, they'd done something similar to her and gone up against something bigger than themselves without a clear chance of coming back alive. And, she was going to guess, that they hadn't.

Whoever they'd been, the woman had cared for them. Enough that however long it had been between losing them and now, she still felt the pain. Of all the nughumping piles of shit she'd expected out of this meeting, Meryell hadn't expected to learn such a thing.

"Well," began Leliana in a stiff voice, "I thank you and Flissa for the invitation. We shall see, I suppose, if I have the time in the evening to make an appearance at the tavern.

Shrugging, Meryell said, "Make it if you can. If you can't, Flissa will find someone else to drink the wine. Probably Dorian."

"I have no doubt," noted the spymaster with what _almost_ resembled a smirk. "If you'll excuse me, Meryell."

With the second iteration of her name in so little time without a blink of the eye by the older woman, she decided she'd had enough herself even without the dismissal. Flipping a hand idly in an errant little wave, Meryell turned and headed back down the stairs, shaking her head as she went striding past Dorian's alcove. He looked fully reengrossed in his book as she passed, so she continued on back downstairs through the bottom rotunda where Chuckles was still at work and on through it back into the main hall.

Varric glanced up as she passed and Meryell nodded briefly at him before she hustled towards the open doors. The outside world made _sense_. At least more so than having a remotely _civil_ conversation with Leliana that didn't have to do with that red lyrium drenched nightmare and feeling fucking _sympathy_ for the woman.

Or...so she thought until she stopped at the landing of the stairs that led down from the doors of the main hall and found a full two dozen group of sweat-coated recruits occupying the open area of the upper yard with the Iron Bull, Cassandra, Blackwall, and Arnald arrayed in front of them. Every one of the quartet was wielding their weapon of choice in a blunted, practice format and were covered in dust and dirt with sweat staining their clothes underneath padded armor. The obvious exception of that being Bull because Maker fucking forbid someone find enough fabric to make the big Qunari a shirt that would fit properly. She didn't think even Josephine was equipped to undertake a feat like that nor that the Bull would actually _wear_ said shirt.

Judging by the looks on the recruits’ faces, all of them were being generally _terrifying_.

“New bloods!” boomed Bull, his voice so loud she swore it rattled the glass in the frames high above her head. “What have we learned today?”

“Don't face Seeker Cassandra without an army at our back, ser!” piped back a random male voice from within the crowd. It immediately broke some of the tension amongst the recruits and laughter came as Cassandra let out a loud snort.

Meryell heard Arnald chuckle as she continued down the stairs before he asked, “Though that statement may be true, it is not an accurate answer to the question of what you've learned. _Jenkins._ ”

A young woman in the front line - built like a mountain and so short she might just be mistaken for a dwarf with flaming red hair - snapped to attention with a sharp, “ _Captain._ ” That was when Meryell realized that the group of recruits was a mix of Inquisition soldiery alongside a handful of new Fangs, identified by the patches of the heraldry newly pinned to their gear until Folke could craft new charms out of his collection of knickknacks or whatever they brought him if they chose something custom.

“ _Report_.”

Jenkins grinned broadly as she replied, “We learned how to take down an opponent bigger than us, Captain.”

“And how do we do that, recruit?” asked Blackwall as he crossed his arms, settling his weight back onto one foot. There was definite laughter in his voice.

The redhead’s mouth stretched wider at that. “You have a harder head than a Qunari, ser.”

Bull bellowed with laughter at that and turned to grin over Cassandra's head at Arnald. That was when she saw that his nose and jaw were _awash_ with not quite dried blood and the end of his nose looked more than a little crooked too. “If you hadn't already nabbed that one, Spy, I'd be fighting you for her. She's going to be a good one.”

“I'm glad you approve,” commented Arnald with a definite smile in his voice. As she finally reached the ground, he snapped out, “Alright, enough for the day, recruits! Get cleaned up and report to your sergeants or captains for the rest of your daily duty. We'll see you back here in the morning at dawn for a run.”

There were immediate groans in response to that and she could sympathize as she'd been on _many_ of the Captain's dawn runs. But every recruit was grinning tiredly as they left, chattering with each other about _did you see that one move the Warden did_ or _what about that twirl the Captain used to bring down the Bull_ or several other variances of similar things.

“Boss!” boomed Iron Bull as he turned and noticed her standing behind them, which had the rest doing the same. “How long have you been hiding there?”

“Only a little while,” she replied with a smile. “I apparently missed the most entertaining part judging by your face, Bull.”

“Hmm?”

Meryell gestured vaguely around her own nose and he frowned before laughing, a fully on thing right from the belly.

“ _This?_ ” he exclaimed. “This is the best thing I've earned in a while. Your Seeker is a force of nature.” Grinning in Cassandra's direction, he added, “If she weren't so devoted to other things, I'd try to recruit her.”

It was a testament to how much time she'd spent with Meryell and Varric that Cassandra merely smiled and said softly, “You may still _try_ but you will _not_ succeed.”

Bull just shrugged at that, saying, “No fun if I know the outcome won't change.” He then planted the end of his war maul - which was still a menacing looking beast even in practice form - on the ground and tipped his chin at her. “So what brings you to our practice?”

“Well,” drawled Arnald, “I know it's not work for the company. We're already planning how to get ourselves down into the Fallow Mire according to the message Commander Cullen sent me this morning. And I hear you're heading to the Hinterlands before you meet up with us there.”

“That's the plan,” confirmed Meryell. “But, yes, no jobs, no messages, no important shit to do.” She grinned as she finished, “Just our lot in Flissa's new tavern tonight with first pick of all her wares. Inner circle and advisors both.”

Arnald arched an eyebrow, to which she added, “Yes, you and Folke _technically_ count as fucking advisors.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed the Captain with a bright smile, his eyes gleaming behind his mask. “I will see you tonight then, my girl. It is certain I should take my own advice and see to it that I get cleaned up.”

He turned to toss his practice sword to Blackwall, who caught it one-handed as Arnald winced from his movement, before he said, “That's going to bruise like a fucking _whore_ , Seeker. Have a care with an old man next time, hmm?”

Cassandra just scoffed loudly before replying, “I am not much younger than you, Captain.” She then smirked - _fucking smirked_ \- before she added slyly, “And perhaps you should learn how to dodge.”

“ _Si cruel! Vous blessez mon cœur, Chercheuse, vraiment._ ”

The Seeker just quirked her lips in response and said, “ _Ce ne serait pas cruel si vous aviez appris à esquiver._ ” Her strong Nevarran accent gave the words a very different flavor than Arnald’s obviously still Orlesian accent did but she said each precisely with a well-taught firmness. Given her background, the language had probably been one of those things she was taught as a child.

Meryell snorted with laughter at the same time Blackwall did, causing Cassandra to turn to blink at her. “You _both_ know Orlesian?” she asked, more than a little surprised.

“Enough to get by,” she replied with a shrug. “I'm not half as fluent as I am with Elven but I can follow _most_ of a conversation in Orlesian.” Grinning at the Seeker, Meryell added, “I know you told him he needed to learn how to dodge again.”

Blackwall grunted in reply and she cocked her head at him as he looked uncomfortable for a moment before saying, “Spent a lot of time in Orlais once or twice. Half the buggers there won't even give you a glance unless you speak the tongue.” Idly she wondered if his uncomfortable response had anything to do with whatever it was in his past that he regretted so deeply.

Cassandra cocked her head to the side and asked, “Are there any other languages you know?”

Meryell shrugged again before answering. “Astrid taught me a bit of Anders - mostly the curses - and I got a crash course of the same from Lortho in Nevarran and Tevene. Since headquarters is in the Free Marches and that’s where we operate most of the time, I know a _bit_ of the weird pidgin they have. Though that’s mostly street language nowadays.” Turning to look at the Captain, she continued, “But most of the company knows at least _one_ other language at least a little.”

“It certainly makes sending you lot on jobs either,” he commented. Then Arnald held up his hands and said, “Enough, now, enough. I am heading back down to my tent and I will see whichever of you are present in the tavern tonight.”

“Don’t break your feeble legs on the way down the hill, Captain!” called Meryell after him and laughed when he flipped a rude gesture at her over his shoulder. She then turned back to the other three and asked, “What about you lot? Going to make an appearance tonight?”

The Iron Bull snorted then hefted his maul off of the ground and up onto his shoulder as he grinned through the blood on his face. “Miss drinks?” he said cheerily. “I never miss an opportunity to drink, Boss.” Then he frowned and asked, “Tavern going to be open for everyone else? My boys are starting to get a bit antsy.”

“I imagine some of the Fangs are feeling the same,” she commented. “Surprised they haven’t opened their own sort of bar down there in camp.” Then she nodded and said, “So far as I’m aware, the tavern is open for business to everyone tonight. We just get first dibs at what we want before anyone else.”

“Good!” boomed Bull as he turned to stride off. “I’ll let the boys know.”

Cassandra watched him go then turned to say, “I will _perhaps_ show up.”

“Oh, come on, Cass,” chided Meryell with a smile. “I’ll make sure you won’t have to sit anywhere near anyone you don’t want to. Cullen and I’ll protect you.”

The other woman quirked an eyebrow before asking, “And who will protect you and Cullen?”

“Flissa.”

“While she is busy with all of Skyhold wanting to partake of her wares?”

“Woman’s got skills. I believe in her,” replied Meryell.

That made Cassandra laugh and she finally said, “Very well. I will come for _one_ drink. No more.”

Grinning, she replied, “S’all I ask.” Turning to Blackwall, she asked, “You?”

The Warden smiled, though the motion was mostly lost behind his beard, and tilted his head forward into a nod. “I’ll be there. Can’t imagine that there’ll be anyone else there that’ll actually keep an eye on Sera. And it’s been a whole month since I had a pint.”

Snorting at the reminder of the friendship that had seemed to have spawned between him and the younger elf (which she had first witnessed on the walk to Skyhold when Sera had called out a cheerful _Beardy_ before nailing him with a snowball and Blackwall had replied with a gruff _Fuzzhead_ that had made the elf giggle as he’d lobbed one back at her), Meryell said, “Good. I’ll see you both later then. I’ve got to go figure out where in this fucking keep my _baba_ has gotten to.”

“I believe,” replied Cassandra, as she started to walk away towards her tent, “that he has been in the mage’s tower all morning. He said something about an experiment when he stopped by earlier?” She looked to Blackwall for confirmation and the Warden nodded.

Sighing, Meryell grumbled, “Well, shit. I hope he hasn’t blown himself up then.” Flipping her hand at them in a parting wave, she headed towards the tower that had been appropriated by the mage’s upon their arrival. It had been one of the few with three floors and enough space for there to be a great number of cots brought in until something more permanent could be done when they’d first arrived.

Now, almost two months after their finding the keep, most of the mage’s were housed two or three to a room on the two floors that had been cleared out directly below their tower in the battlements behind the armory. There were still cots present in the tower itself but they were now tucked into corners and mostly hidden behind carved wooden screens or heavily laden bookshelves for when a mage was hard at work and didn’t want or couldn’t leave whatever they were working on. It had actually helped as well that a few of the mages had joined up with the Fangs and the Chargers and thus were now sleeping in the valley encampment.

As she walked across the battlements towards the tower, she saw the door was flung wide open and there was a templar standing in it with his back to her. _And his sword free_.

Memory lanced through her of another templar with a blade, followed by the terrifying run through a dark forest to escape him with a bleeding from the face and mana drained Folke more leaning on her than moving on his own power. Meryell laid a hand on the hilt of the dagger sheathed behind her hips (the only one she wore in Skyhold) and sprinted towards the tower as fear and bile rose in her throat.

The templar turned as he heard her approach and his blue eyes went wide. She registered short, dark hair and a strong jaw before she was level with him and he started to open his mouth. While his features hadn't given him away, his voice immediately gave him away as Ferelden with just a little Marcher influence. The exact sort of accent that Cullen had.

“Inquisitor…!”

Filing her realizations away for later, she snarled, “ _Why the fucking fuck do you have that sword out, templar?_ ”

He blinked then turned fully to the side in the doorway before stepping to the side as he gestured for her to move past. Meryell eyed him for a long moment before she moved into the doorway and her hand immediately tightened on the hilt of her dagger until the leather creaked.

There was a fucking _corpse_ standing in the middle of the first floor.

It was in a containment circle, the purple light of the spell just barely flickering along the lines drawn on the floor in a pattern she'd never understood the meaning of. That didn't make it any less _creepy_ or help the fucking _smell_ coming off of it. On the opposite side of the room were Folke and Demut as well as another company mage, Mort, and a swarthy looking Rivaini mage who had to be one of the one's from Redcliffe. All four of them had their heads together and were passing a sheath of notes back and forth while they chattered to each other.

“You'd think this far away whatever magic is holding it together would dissipate,” she heard Folke say.

The Rivaini man shook his head before saying with a thick accent, “No, no, it _permeates_ the flesh, you see. The magic is _in_ it.”

“It's a _demon_ , you twits,” growled Demut, looking utterly fed up with her male counterparts. Turning her head to eye Folke, she added in her thick Starkhaven accent, “I bet we could take even _you_ , shit for brains, and you'd feel the Veil was thin there.”

Folke gasped theatrically and clasped a hand over his heart in response as he sniffed, crying, “Dem, my darling, you wound me _so_.”

“I'll fucking _wound you_ , you shithead.”

Mort looked up as Demut reached for the sides of Folke's jacket and spotted her, instantly reading Meryell's mood judging by the look on his face. Taking a hasty step away from the group, he said warily, “Um... _Folke...Dem…_ ” When they didn't stop, he started pawing at the Rivaini mage's shoulder as the man now had the notes all to himself to flip through.

“What are you,” began the man only to trail off as Mort gestured past him. He turned to look and instantly went pale (which was impressive for such a dark-skinned man). The pair of them immediately _fled_ across the room out the door that led to the battlements above the still in progress garden and she vaguely registered the templar chuckling from behind her.

Folke and Demut were still _utterly_ unaware that she was there.

Eyeing the corpse again, which she registered was wearing the remnants of what appeared to have once been simple Ferelden clothes, Meryell called out loudly, “ _Baba_.”

“Dem, darling, there's no need to…”

“ _Shut. Up._ ”

Closing her eyes and breathing heavily for a moment to control her rage and old fear, she ground her teeth together before shouting, “ _Baba!_ ”

There must have been some shred of the terror she'd felt earlier in her voice right then because Folke went immediately still. Demut's grip on his coat went limp a moment later before quickly falling away entirely. Everyone in the company knew that when she sounded the slightest bit hurt and someone stood in his way, Folke turned damn near into a battering ram. She hurt and he would freely commit _murder_ on anyone that stopped him getting to her. And the Captain wouldn't bat a fucking eye if anyone was fool enough to get in his way.

"Poppet?" he asked, looking truly concerned. His gray eyes flicked to where her hand still tightly gripped her dagger, darted to her face, then went past her to the templar. Realization blossomed and he quickly strode around the contained corpse, reaching out to her. "Oh, _ara vherain_. _Ir abelas._ I didn't think about…”

Meryell stared hard at the scar on his cheek for a moment before reaching out to him with her free hand. As soon as his fingers enclosed her wrist, Folke tugged her forward into his chest and put his mouth to her ear. "Forgive me for being a bad father and forgetting?”

She just shuddered, leaning heavily into him, and closed her eyes as she replied softly,” So long as you forgive me for being a bad daughter.”

His arms tightened around her in a quick hug and he breathed, “ _Bell’ana._ ” Folke then pulled away, moving his hands to her shoulders, and said, “I’m assuming you want to talk to me.” When she just nodded in response, he turned to Demut, who had quickly lost whatever anger she had. That was her and her temper though, quick to spark and just as quick to come down. “Dem, get those two back in here and figure out what the fuck this thing is. The soldiers need an answer soon before we send more of them down to the Fallow Mire.”

“We will figure it out,” she replied with a firm nod. Demut then turned towards the templar as Folke started to pull Meryell towards door she’d entered through, saying, “Ser Cutter, would you watch our little...guest...while I go see where our cowards have run off to?”

Meryell caught the edge of the templar’s smile out of the corner of her eye - it was a pleasant one, not at all like the templar she’d abruptly remembered upon seeing him with his sword out at the tower door. As Folke pressed her onward, she heard him say, “I’ll watch it like a hawk.” Then the door closed behind them as her father pulled it firmly shut and his strong hand against the small of her back pushed her back down the battlements she’d come across only moments before.

“I thought you’d gotten past that,” he said after a moment.

Blinking several times, she softly replied, “I thought I had too, _baba_.” Meryell then shook her head, continuing, “Seeing him at the door when I knew you were in the tower, though...fuck, suddenly all I could remember was our flight through the forest. How scared I was. I thought...I thought...”

“You thought something had happened.”

“I don’t know what I thought.” Closing her eyes, she lifted her free hand to pinch the bridge of her nose as she worked to loosen her now stiff fingers from around her dagger hilt. “Maker’s cock, I didn’t come up here intending to stress out.”

Folke chuckled, saying, “No one _intends_ on stressing out, Poppet. Come, here, sit with me on the wall. That dwarven crew your lovely Anitvan lady hired just declared it sound last week.”

“ _Baba_ ,” Meryell scolded as she let him press her down into a seat on the low wall of the battlement with one foot dangling over the side courtyard between the armory and the back of the tavern, “Josephine is not someone with an accent that you want to toy with.”

“Toy?” he repeated in that tone she knew meant he knew _exactly_ what she was talking about.

“She will _eat you alive_.”

“No, no, _ara vherain_ ,” replied Folke with a broad smile as he sat himself down in front of her, “that is your spymaster.”

Snorting a laugh, Meryell nodded, unable to argue with that. Then she found her hands in his and watched for a moment as he slowly worked his way over her right hand, massaging out the stiffness she’d put into the delicate muscles moments before. They sat in silence like that for a long moment before he asked, “Now...what was it that you came looking for me for?”

“Flissa’s opening the tavern tonight and advisors as well as inner circle get first go at the stores. That includes you and the Captain.”

Folke chuckled at that, saying, “I should hope so with the amount of business that we gave the lass back in Haven.” He then flicked his gaze up at her and asked, “Are we _only_ drinking?”

Snorting, she replied, “Varric has already agreed to bring his cards for Diamondback.”

“Excellent! I can win some of my dignity back.”

“ _Baba_ , from what I heard about the rest of that night we last played, you are so deep in the hole I don’t know how you’d win that back.”

“Hence why I said _some_ ,” he grumbled back. “Honestly, such rudeness towards your elders. Whoever taught you to be such a little shit like that?”

Meryell reached out with her left hand to shove him lightly in the shoulder, to which he feigned serious injury, and replied with a laugh, “ _You_ fucking did and you know it!”

“Told you not to follow my example too, didn’t I?” Folke shot back with a smile. He then released her hand to fall to rest against her knee as he looked up and cocked his head to the side. “I take it our dashing Commander will be joining us tonight?”

Smirking and feeling her cheeks flush slightly at the recollection of the moment in Cullen’s still sparse office earlier, she answered, “I gave him quite the incentive to stop working.”

“Mmhmm. And when, Poppet, are you going to explain to him the word that I’ve now heard _him_ calling _you_?”

Recoiling a little like she’d been slapped in the face, Meryell started to open her mouth then snapped it closed as she jerked her head to the side. Honestly she _should_ have already told him what it meant. Probably should have the moment he uttered it in that unsure way he handled most Elven words, carefully sounding them out with a tongue unfamiliar to the language. Yet...she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Even with every reassurance from Cullen’s lips, word and gesture alike, she still wasn’t entirely convinced that this all wasn’t going to blow up in her face. Literally every other relationship she’d ever attempted in the past had, so what could possibly make this one any different. That was one of those things that her head whispered in the dead of night, when she was alone in her tent. And every answer she had, it countered with something from those past attempts.

She felt Folke’s hand at the side of her head then, his fingers brushing her far too long now hair back behind her ears with care not to touch them. “He cares for you,” he noted softly.

Nodding faintly, Meryell whispered, “More than he probably should.”

“None of fucking that now,” hissed her father harshly. “You are worth more than trysts in hay lofts and _boys_ who don’t know a damned good thing when they’ve got their hands on it. And that _man_ knows what he’s got in you.” He paused to touch his fingers to her chin and turned her head to face him, his expression gentle. “I’ve told you many a time to not let the words of _felasilla_ bring you down.”

“It’s hard, _baba_.”

Folke shook his head and leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead before he whispered, “The best things in life always are, _ara vherain_.”

Meryell shrugged slightly before asking the question that had plagued her from the first realization of the fact that Cullen liked her as something more than just a friend. “And what happens,” she breathed, her voice cracking slightly, “if he realizes he _doesn’t_ want me?”

“ _You_ are getting ahead of yourself.” Her father then pressed his hands to her cheeks, forcing her to look at him with a gentle tilt of her head, and stated fiercely, “But, in that event, I have already informed him that I take blood from those who hurt you. Do you know what he replied?”

Shaking her head, she watched him smile and knew with a wild flutter of her heart that Folke _approved._ And he’d never once liked the few other men she’d attempted relationships with. Not. One. Until now.

“He told me,” he said slowly, “that he would willingly surrender himself to my revenge if he hurt you. A _templar_ surrendering himself to a _mage_. That man, Poppet, loves you even if neither of you have yet said or thought the word. Remind yourself of _that_ when that foul little mind of yours decides to fuck with you.”

Feeling a smile touch her own lips, Meryell asked, “And promptly tell it where it can fuck off?”

Folke grinned broadly and nodded before leaning forward to kiss her forehead again, this one rougher than the previous. “That’s my girl,” he growled proudly. “That’s _my_ little lioness.”

“Shall I roar too for you, _baba_?”

“Save the _roaring_ for your Commander, Poppet.” he replied, laughing as she blushed at the obvious innuendo he injected into the word. “And tell him what _vhen’an’ara_ means.”

“Yes, _baba_.”

Laughing, Folke said, “Now _that’s_ how one talks to your elders!”

Meryell snorted a laugh and rolled her eyes before she swung around to punch him in the shoulder as hard as she could. He immediately tipped over backwards, landing hard on his back on the battlement floor, and let out a dusty sounding cough.

“Is _that_ how I talk to my elders too?” she asked in a faux sweet tone.

“Only when we’re giving you shit,” he replied, winking at her from the floor. They both exploded into laughter at that and Meryell promptly rose to help him up, trying to dust off his coat and failing miserably. After several attempts, Folke finally waved her off and made a muttered excuse that he needed to get back to their little experiment. He kissed her cheek before he left with a smile and she watched him stride off with a far lighter attitude than she’d had only moments before.

Because he was right. Her _baba_ often was about things like this.

Tonight she would do it.

Tonight she would give Cullen the meaning of the word.

And then...well, she would see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **General Translations**  
>   
>  Si cruel! Vous blessez mon cœur, Chercheuse, vraiment. - So cruel! You wound my heart, Seeker, truly.  
> Ce ne serait pas cruel si vous aviez appris à esquiver - It would not be cruel if you learned how to dodge.  
>  ~~The above are actual French (because, Orlais). I don’t actually know French so I relied upon a translator for these.~~ Many _many_ thanks to [Feliishiiaa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Feliishiiaa/pseuds/Feliishiiaa) for correcting the job that translator did.  
>   
>  **Elven/Elvhen Translations:**  
>   
>  bell’ana - forever (because no word for always in Project Elvhen)  
> felasilla - fools


	23. “I'm late thanks to Josephine and two merchants with less sense between them than a horde of darkspawn. Now what's the name of the damn tavern?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bad day for Meryell becomes a better one with alcohol and her company...until it doesn't. For a while it seems like it won't get better again either, until it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, forgot to update again. I fully blame Diablo III. A friend bought it for me as a belated birthday present, so I spent the whole night playing.

She was fucking _late_.

Late because apparently a pair of merchants got into a snit over which place they should be occupying in the lower part of the keep. They had promptly started fighting with each other verbally before descending into a full on _fist fight_ and that had lead to someone going to Josephine. Who had promptly sent someone looking for _her_ because fuck knew that when folks started throwing punches in the keep that the new Inquisitor had to be involved.

To say that Meryell was _pissed_ was putting it fucking simply.

She'd spent the last hours of her afternoon and the early hours of her evening being _polite_ to the merchants alongside Josephine. Of course, once she'd learned the reason behind their little spat, she'd promptly chucked polite decorum out the proverbial window and told both men that they were fucking idiots. To her credit, Josephine hadn't said one thing to interrupt the little tirade she'd followed that up with until Meryell had threatened to throw _both_ of the fools out on their ears.

So, instead, Josephine had negotiated permanent spaces for them that were equal in positioning but far enough away from each other and Meryell had stood off to the side and glared menacingly. As if to say _I don't want you here and she's the only thing keeping you from losing coin_.

It probably hadn't endeared _her_ to those particular merchants but it had certainly endeared _Josephine._ And anything that helped their ambassador get more shit done was perfectly alright in Meryell's book even if she had to look like an asshole to accomplish it. Wouldn't be the first time she'd played the part to get something done and she knew how to exude menace with the best of them.

Though it probably helped that these two knew she'd gone up against the thing that took out Haven in one fell swoop and walked away.

Now it was fringing onto full dark and she was only just now crossing the upper courtyard on her way to the tavern from the main keep. Already she could hear the sound of dozens of voices raised in cheerful chatter, the occasional drunken shout, and several that were singing something she couldn't quite make out.

Obvious they hadn't waited for her to start drinking - and she wouldn't have wanted them to, honestly - but she hoped Flissa had at least saved the official naming until she got there. Given that there was no sign hanging outside, which the woman had noted she'd had made with some pride, Meryell guessed that she had waited.

As soon as she pushed the door open, _noise_ hit her like a slap in the face. It set her ears to ringing for a moment, since elven ears were somewhat sensitive to sound, but she quickly recovered. Years of walking into the various celebratory sessions that followed a successful job had done its work well.

“Swears!” cheered Varric from directly ahead of her in the center of the room where a broad table had been placed. There was already a game of Diamondback in full swing, made up of mostly faces she didn't recognize by name. Sera was also present and already looked _fucking sloshed_ but Blackwall was sitting at the little elf’s side so she wasn't worried about the younger girl getting into too much shit. The older man was ruddy in the face from drink but she'd seen him hold his liquor a night or two back at the Singing Maiden. That and she got the impression that their strange friendship was one of older sibling to younger, so she knew he'd make sure she ended up alright.

To her delight, Folke was also already present at one end of the table and _Rylen_ was sitting awfully fucking close to him with the most _glorious_ smirk on his face. She'd happened to grab the Knight Captain on her way down to the lower courtyard to start dealing with the merchants and explained the general plan for the night. He'd laughed but _blushed_ at the same time and suddenly she'd put more fruit on the tree of her _baba’s_ saying the man swung both ways.

Judging by the scowl on her _baba’s_ face, he knew he was being played and couldn't decide if he liked what it had gotten him or not.

“Varric!” she replied in the same tone of voice as she came around the table to fold her arms across his shoulders. “Already started without me, I see.”

“The locals were getting restless,” replied to dwarf with a smirk as he shuffled cards for another hand. “You want in?”

Meryell shook her head and replied, “ _Fuck no_. I am in serious need of a drink after the shit from earlier and I want to know what Flissa named the tavern!”

He shook his head in reply. “She made is clear that she was waiting on _you_ , sweetheart. Get over there before we start again so she can get the last official shit done.”

“Ser, yes, ser!”

Straightening up, Meryell turned towards where she knew the bar was but couldn't see it from the sheer press of bodies surrounding it clamoring for drink. The Bull, however, was seated in the middle of the unholy mess and grinned brightly as he spotted her.

“Glad to see you made it, Boss!” he boomed out, his voice carrying effectively across the tavern to catch the attention of almost everyone. Including Flissa who was up to her elbows in tankards alongside the taciturn dwarf named Cabot she'd hired to help her run the tavern.

“Herald!” exclaimed the woman with a bright smile. “You're finally here!”

Meryell smiled tightly and replied, “I'm late thanks to Josephine and two merchants with less sense between them than a horde of darkspawn. Now what's the name of the damn tavern?”

Laughing, Flissa merely gestured to Bull in reply and he extended an arm across the bar to the slight woman. She stepped up onto something that Meryell couldn't see behind the counter then she was up on top of it. “Your attention if you please, everyone!” she called out, drawing the attention that Bull had already attracted to her. “As I’m certain you’re all aware since you’re here, we’re celebrating the opening of this very tavern!”

Cheers went up along with a thrusting of mugs, tankards, and cups into the air and alcohol was generally sloshed about in a way that made a rush of curses and giggles break out. Then Bull coughed and the noise banked itself down as he reached through the people to grab Meryell, pulling her towards him. With little effort, he lifted her up onto the counter alongside Flissa a moment later and as she straightened, the woman called out, “And now that our Inquisitor has finally graced us with her presence, I can finally tell you all what our humble establishment will be called!”

Another cheer went up and Flissa turned, smiling at Meryell, as she reached out to tug at the bit of fabric that she hadn’t noticed covering something directly above the bar. As it fell away, her eyes widened as she saw that it was a large wooden sign hanging by two chains from the floor above them. Someone had attached a wooden circle to the center with a carving of a hand with a green flame radiating from the palm set in the center and on either side of the circle were carved the words _Herald’s Rest_.

Flissa leaned in as the crowd cheered loudly and breathed in her ear, “I named it because you spent so much time in the Maiden in Haven. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“What _else_ would they tell me?” asked Meryell as she quirked an eyebrow at the other woman.

“That I named it such because Andraste would wish for her Herald to have a place of rest or some other such shite,” replied the woman with a little bit of viciousness. While Meryell knew that Flissa _was_ religious, she’d also learned that the woman didn’t take to fibbery or lies with any manner of tolerance. If she said the way the things were, then they had better well be repeated that way else she was liable to get up in arms. And Flissa up in arms at you tended to get you cut off from alcohol. “I’ve got another copy of the hand to hang outside thanks to your Warden. Got a lot of skill with his hands, that man does. _Anyway_. I have a bottle just for you of that whiskey you prefer if the Iron Bull will help us back down.”

There was some sort of innuendo in there about Blackwall’s hands and she was decidedly _not_ going in that direction.

The Qunari turned his head at the sound of his name and smiled as he said, “Anything for two of my favorite ladies.”

Meryell snorted as she put her hand in his as he offered it, Flissa’s joining it a moment later as his hands were large enough to hold both of theirs at the same time. As she glanced down to see what the tavern owner had used to step up earlier - it was a sturdy looking crate - she commented, “You only like me because I let you come with me to kill things!”

“And I provide you with alcohol,” pointed out Flissa.

“Which are two of my favorite things,” replied Bull with a broad smile as well as a wink. As soon as they settled on the floor, he picked up the overlarge tankard that Meryell remembered him being handed when they’d met on the Storm Coast and saluted her with it. “This is already a good night, Boss. Watching your father slowly lose his clothes is probably going to be the entertainment of the night.”

At that, Meryell turned around and stared hard at the Diamondback table, where another hand had already started up. Bull was true to his word because, as she watched, her father was pushing himself back from the table to pull off his boots to the delighted looks of both Varric and Rylen. Rolling her eyes, she grumbled, “Maferath’s rotten _balls_ , if he’s already losing clothes this early, we’re all going to get a bloody show.”

“Is it at least worth it?”

Turning to blink at the big Qunari, Meryell replied hesitantly, “I guess? Fuck, Bull, he’s my _baba_. I may have seen his cock but it’s not like I go looking for it.”

He smirked and leaned on the bar, waggling his eyebrows as he repeated the question a bit more forcefully. “But is it _worth it_ , Boss?”

“Shit. Fuck. I don’t…” Trailing off, she spotted Evune in the crowd of faces and stepped up onto the crate to shout across the tavern, “ _Evune!_ Inquiring minds have a question that you are readily able to answer!” The older elf lifted her eyebrows in surprise and slowly made her way towards them through the crowd, slipping through with the ease of any Dalish hunter worth their bow or blade.

“And what do we have to ask, _da’assan_ ?” she asked when she finally made it to them, leaning her elbows casually on the counter next to the Bull. Meryell grimaced in reply before she realized that Flissa was holding out a bottle towards her and silently mouthed _Bless you_ at the woman. She quickly tugged the cork out and swigged a more than decent mouthful of it before she felt ready to ask the question. Talking about her father’s sexual shenanigans didn’t make her uncomfortable but dear sweet _fuck_ she hadn’t had nearly enough to drink for this to be the first conversation she’d ended up in tonight.

“Is it worth seeking _baba_ bare assed?” she asked bluntly and Evune promptly burst into _giggles_. Obviously she’d been drinking wine as that was the one thing that made the normally serious woman burst into giggles.

It took a long moment for Evune to regain her composure and when she did, she asked, “By the Creators, _who_ is asking?”

“I am,” rumbled the Bull in response before he jerked his chin towards the ongoing game. “Given he’s swiftly losing everything he’s got thanks to the dwarf and the Captain, I was asking if the show was going to be worth it.”

Watching as the look in Evune’s eyes went from curious to downright _scandalous_ , Meryell said shortly, “That’s it. I’m _so done_ here,” and promptly fled from behind the bar with her whisky. But not before she caught the other elf making an incredibly lewd comment and Bull sounding far too impressed.

She was not _half_ as drunk as she needed to be for this shit.

And, so far as she could tell, her normal drinking partner was still in his office fucking _working_. Which meant not only no company in whatever corner she decided to sequester herself in but that she couldn’t have the damned conversation that she’d intended to have with him.

Scowling, Meryell made a slow round of the bottom floor of the tavern with her bottle and found it to be, by and large, Inquisition soldiery and scouts other than the occasional Fang face and those playing Diamondback. As she circled back around to where she’d started, she caught a hint of familiar voices coming from the floor above her beyond the cacophony of the first floor and headed for the stairs. As she mounted them to climb upward, she noted idly that Krem had joined the table by squeezing in between two of the other players with a loud clapping on the back that confirmed the two as fellow Chargers and her _baba_ had lost his shirt.

“Darling,” she heard Dorian purr as soon as she stepped up onto the floor, “what fascinating thing is going on downstairs? I’m seeing a rather lot of skin.”

Sidling over to stand next to the mage as he leaned on the railing, a seemingly ever-present glass of wine in his hand, she replied, “That is my _baba_ making an absolute fool of himself. While possibly also engaging and perhaps succeeding in getting the Knight Captain in bed.”

Dorian arched his eyebrows at that. “ _Fasta vass_. I was utterly unaware your father was inclined towards men.”

Snorting, Meryell noted dryly, “ _Baba_ is inclined towards almost anyone willing to share his bed. He also has a thing for accents.”

“Oh, I do see the draw he finds in the Captain then, darling. While it’s certainly not _my_ thing, per say, I can see how it can be appreciated.” Dorian then turned to lean only one elbow on the rail, smirking as he lifted his wine glass to his lips. “Now,” he purred after he took a sip, “where is _your_ dashing Commander? I haven’t had nearly enough people around to tease into a blush tonight.”

“Still working, it seems,” she grumbled. Not that she blamed Cullen for the delay as he _did_ have an awful lot of work since they’d settled in Skyhold. She understood that some things came first. Mostly it was that she’d had a day that had become decidedly _shittier_ as the hours went by from the almost pleasant way she’d spent that morning. And all she really wanted was to curl up underneath the weight of his arm across her shoulders.

The mage frowned and straightened up, lifting his free hand to waggle a finger in her face as he said, “That won’t do at all, my dear Meryell.”

Blinking at his finger, she asked, “ _What_ won’t do?”

“Why that _scowl_ on your face.” Dorian then promptly swung around to stand beside her, wrapping his arm snugly around her waist and pulling her away from the second floor railing. “Come along, darling. Some of your Fangs are over here telling the most delightful stories of jobs and the glorious shenanigans they have gotten into over the years. And I think you have been desperately lacking time spent with them.”

Meryell frowned at his words but couldn’t deny it. She’d barely had time for _Cullen_ lately, let alone her own company. Shit, she’d only been down to the new camp _once_ since they’d settled into the keep and that had been for the funerary rites they’d held for the dead a month back. She’d cried with the lot of them and they’d spent the night drinking and reminiscing until dawn all of the best and worst things about those they’d added to the dead roll that night. Then it had been immediately back to work with a hangover that felt rather like that avalanche that she’d nearly gotten killed in.

“What about…”

“ _I_ ,” proclaimed the mage with a broad, vague gesture of his glass laden hand as he steered her along the floor, “will keep an eye out for our dashing Commander, darling. _You_ are to sit right here…” At this point he trailed off as he pressed her right up into the circle of seats and amongst her company. Dorian beamed broadly at them, his smile a weapon that she'd found he readily made use of, and finished, “ _And enjoy yourself_ . Laugh, cry, drink, or whichever combination of the three makes you happy but by all that is holy you need to _relax_..”

“ _Asa’ma’lin_ ,” Pod said warmly as the mage retreated, reaching out towards her as he shifted over on the wooden bench he and Hart occupied. For a moment Meryell hesitated because he had his arm wrapped around the other elven woman's waist in an overly familiar fashion, though she didn’t recall the two of them ever being anything before now. He immediately scowled and hissed, “We're not _fucking_ on the damned bench, sister. Now come sit by me and drink some of whatever you have in that bottle. I get the feeling that you need it.” Hart snorted a laugh in response to his statement and Meryell rolled her eyes before she reached out to take his offered hand.

As he tugged her forward and she settled onto the bench next to him, Meryell cast a glance around the little gathering they had. There were no more than fifteen Fangs squeezed into the seating area underneath the stairs that led up to the third floor of the tavern. Pod and Hart occupied the bench placed on one side of the stairs up against one of supporting columns, while Roddy, Bel, and Urien were crammed into the matching bench on the other side. Two chairs had been jammed up underneath the stairs and one was occupied by the elegant form of the copper-skinned Tyrrania while the other had apparently been claimed by someone currently not present judging by the full mug of beer holding the chair. Astrid and Bernard were at the table that sat immediately on the other side of the support poles, currently engaged in what appeared to be both an arm wrestling match and who could drink their mug dry the quickest. Seated on top of the end of their table was the ever flirting Sancha and the Antivan woman was doing her damndest to gain the attention of Rhiryd who was seated across from her. The big Avvar man, however, had all of his attention focused on the tiny form of Sister Cecilia who was in a chair tucked right up next to him, reading to him in her lilting Orlesian tones.

Lortho turned out to be the occupant of the other chair and as he flopped down after picking up his mug, he grinned at her. “Yeller!” he exclaimed more than a little drunkenly. Judging by the loose laces on his trousers that she could see hanging down from underneath his tunic, his absence was most likely explained by his having to go take a piss.

“Can we _not_ call me that, Lorth?” she asked as she leaned against Pod. Lifting her bottle, she took his advice and downed a hearty swig before she added, “You know I hate that fucking name.”

The Nevarran born Tevinter man grimaced and leaned forward, saying gently, “Sorry, lovely, I forget sometimes that you always hated Camden calling you that.”

Meryell rolled her eyes and grumbled, “Can we not talk about _that_ asshole either?”

Urien snorted from his spot across from her and lifted his cup towards her in a half-hearted toast as he said, “You're the one that told us not to complete our violent massacre of him when he fucked you over years back, girlie. And told the Captain to keep him.”

“I wasn't going to be the reason we lost a good bowman, Uri,” she growled back. “And if _anyone_ was going to murder Camden for what he did, it was damn well going to be _me_. No one else but maybe Folke gets that particular pleasure.”

“Damned right!” exploded Roddy. “That rat bastard deserves no less.”

“But _that_ ,” interjected Hart in her rough, gravelly voice that seemed so out of character with a slight elven woman who was at least two hands shorter than Meryell, “is not why we are here tonight.” Lifting her mug, she looked around at all of them - including Astrid and Bernard, who had seemingly finished their little match with the former the winner of both - and intoned firmly, “We are here to _drink_.”

Bel nodded firmly alongside Roddy and Urien then Tyrrania spoke up, gesturing towards Meryell with the elegant motions she hadn't lost despite leaving her noble family behind more than a decade ago.

“And I believe,” she said with a smile, “that we have been given something of a mission by our Lord Pavus.”

Lortho sat up at her words, grinning broadly as he winked at her. “Helping our Meryell, you mean? That has to be it ‘cause she looks mighty down.”

“Indeed,” replied the woman with a sly smile. “Until her...what was the word he used to describe your Commander?”

Meryell scowled a little at the question and took another swig of her whiskey before grumbling, “ _Dashing_.”

“ _Dashing?_ ” exclaimed Astrid as she abruptly moved from table to a chair, plunking it down right next to Meryell's end of the bench. The big Anders woman wrapped an arm about her shoulders and growled, interrupting whatever Tyrrania was going to say, “Man’s a _warrior_ , you drunken sots. You don't call a man like that _dashing_.”

Sancha, distracted by the conversation (and possibly because it was overly obvious that Rhiryd was absolutely _smitten_ with Sister Cecilia), shifted around to their end of the table and giggled drunkenly. She took a second swig from the tankard Meryell hadn't noticed the Antivan woman holding before saying, “Especially when he's such a _fine_ specimen. Have you _seen_ those pants, they are so _escandaloso!_ What I would give to have my hands on that _delicious_ ass…”

 _That_ got Meryell's back up and she abruptly said loudly, “That's _my_ fucking delicious ass, Sana, and don't you forget it.” Her declaration had the whole group either immediately bursting into laughter or hissing jokingly like cats.

“Oh, _cuchilla_ , I know full well not to play where I'm not wanted,” Sancha proclaimed with a broad smile. “He has eyes for none but _you_.”

“Yet,” pointed out Pod, “ _you_ still oogle _his_ ass.”

“I am a weak woman, _mi amigo_.”

Bel giggled and chirped, “That's most of us!”

“Men as well,” noted Bernard quietly with a smile, the first thing he'd put forth to the conversation. He then shrugged and Meryell caught his eyes as he added, “But, again, the Commander only has eyes for you.”

The nervousness, involving telling him what _vhen’an’ara_ meant that had been following her since the conversation with Folke, was pressed down by their words. She felt buoyed by them, lifted up to giddy heights of pleasure at hearing such things (though that was probably also the alcohol). Fuck, even hearing that others were eying him up, which might have added to the already numerous excuses her mind came up with, didn't touch her.

“Still not _dashing_ ,” piped Astrid, bringing the conversation back around to her original comment.

“ _So_ dashing,” argued Bel. “You obviously didn't see him carrying her back into camp after they found her in the snow.”

The Anders woman started to open her mouth but Tyrrania beat her to saying something. “We are to speak of _good_ things,” she pointed out. “Not things that may not be quite so fond memories. So our Meryell may enjoy herself, yes?”

Bel looked somewhat cowed by the Tevinter woman's response and Astrid snorted. “Sure,” she growled before releasing Meryell, leaning back in her chair to take a long swig of the contents of her mug. “We can tell you about what the Captain and your ambassador had us doing in the Hinterlands after we joined up?”

As Meryell shook her head in response to the question, Lortho piped up, “Or the Storm Coast! Shit, _shit,_ Bernard, we've got to tell her about _that!_ ”

“We have time,” the big man rumbled with a smile as he sipped his drink. “I think Astrid’s claimed first dibs to story time.”

“Fucking right,” growled the woman with a sharp nod. She then launched into her story immediately, putting great detail into who went with her, what they were doing, and apparently anything else that seemed remotely relevant (or even irrelevant) to the story.

Meryell smiled and settled heavily against Pod’s side, leaning her head back against his shoulder as she took another drink from her bottle. She let Astrid’s voice roll over her, more paying attention to the familiar timbre than the actual tale she was telling.

Oh, yes, besides having Cullen actually here, _this_ was exactly what she had needed to end the day with. Whiskey in her belly, a warm buzz in her head, and her family (the familiar one of a decade, not the new and nebulous one she suspected was forming out of the Inquisition) around her with true stories and ridiculous lies pouring from their mouths. _That_ was a way to end a day.

Of course, good things - like she had learned long ago - never last. Which is how she found herself on the battlements outside the third floor, leaning over the side with Rhiryd holding her while she puked her guts out all over Skyhold’s walls and Sister Cecilia wiping her mouth with a wet rag between bouts of sick. Bright side, she was _mostly_ sober now.

“There, there, my girl,” the Orlesian woman said in soothing tones as she brushed sweaty hair back from Meryell's forehead. There was little for her to use her rag on this time as Meryell had made the fool mistake of not eating, thus most of what she was doing now was dry heaving. “I think you've got it mostly out now. Rhiryd, be a dove and go find a glass of water? And if he's still sober, that mage Dorian.”

The big man rumbled what Meryell could only assume was an acknowledgement in Avvish and gently lowered her to the floor of the battlements. As Cecilia settled next to her, leaning her over so she could rest her head on the older woman's shoulder, he paused to look at the former Sister with a softness to his dark eyes. At least that's how it looked to Meryell but she was admittedly pretty damn drunk. That could very well have been a look of pity for her. Then he was gone, thumping off back through the open door of the tavern with the heavy footsteps of a warrior utterly unfamiliar with stealth.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and breathed, “Fucking stupid.”

“Yes, my girl, it was,” replied Cecilia as she gently carded her fingers through Meryell's hair. “And I will scold no more than that because you know you did a fool thing.”

Smiling, Meryell turned her head further into the Sister's shoulder. “You're the best sort of Chantry Sister, you know that?”

“Because I scold only when it is obvious you lot have no idea you've done wrong? Yes, I know, dove.” The older woman then asked, “Do you think you could stomach something if I sent Rhiryd to the kitchens?”

The very _idea_ of food made Meryell's stomach roll and she lurched away from Cecilia, her eyes snapping open as she went. That motion didn't help her stomach _at all_ and she ended up hacking bile flavored spittle all over the battlement wall as the older woman held her up from behind.

“No more talk of that then. It is only water for you tonight, my girl.”

Nodding weakly, she slumped back against the woman after hocking one last gob of spit onto the wall. “Fuck,” she breathed.

“There will be none of that either.”

Tilting her head back as now she was settled against Cecilia’s chest, Meryell muttered, “I think I know my limits, Sister.”

“Truly?” asked the Sister with a wry smile. She then looked up and away towards the door at the sound of heavy footsteps returning. Only it sounded like...more than one set? “Ah, I see you found someone to aid our endeavours.”

Thinking it was going to be Dorian, Meryell turned her head slowly in that direction to avoid jostling the sharp pain that was already sparking behind her eyes. Instead she found Cullen standing behind Rhiryd, free of his armor for the night and looking incredibly concerned.

As the Avvar man put the cup of water gently into Sister Cecilia’s open hand, Cullen moved forward to crouch down beside them. He then reached out to pick up her right hand in both of his, bare fingers running over her skin, before saying softly, “You _started_ and _ended_ the party without me, dear thief.”

“You're _late_ ,” replied Meryell pointedly, clenching her fingers around his. She then sipped at the water as Cecilia moved the cup up to her lips, sighing contentedly at the soothing sensation on her throat even as she noticed his expression turning dark.

“Yes,” he replied steely. “There was far more paperwork than Jim first estimated.”

Rhiryd snorted a laugh at that and Cecilia said, “Oh dear. Whatever did you do to the poor dove?”

“Nothing.” Cullen smiled slyly as he added, “But what he _thinks_ I may do to him will last for some time. Hopefully it will be enough of a lesson.”

“Beat him and he will learn,” commented Rhiryd roughly in his thickly accented, still mostly broken Common. Then he made a vague gesture at Cullen before saying to Cecilia, “Let him take care?”

The older woman hummed and looked down at Meryell, gently stroking hairs from her forehead again before she turned towards Cullen. “Have you cared for someone sick of drink, Commander?”

“Myself once or twice,” he replied with a slight shrug of his shoulders. If Meryell had been a little more towards sober, she probably would have paid more attention to the expression on his face when he said that. Particularly since he’d told her straight out that he had never drunk very often until he’d met her.

“We will leave our Meryell in your hands then. I doubt I need to tell you to have a care with her, but I do say only speak of water.”

Cullen just smiled and abruptly Meryell realized she was leaning back against him instead of Cecilia. When had they shifted her around? _Shit_ , when had he sat down and the Sister stood up?  “Upset stomach?” he asked wryly.

The Sister's expression went dark as she replied, “She was a fool and did not eat before throwing herself into drink.” Meryell's stomach rolled immediately at the word _eat_ but she managed to keep it from utterly revolting. The look suddenly on Cullen's face, though, made her wish she was capable of running right then.

He looked so _disappointed_.

“I see,” he said softly. “Well, I thank you, Sister, for taking care of her. And you, ser.”

“Rhiryd,” grunted the Avvar man as he curled a possessive arm around Sister Cecilia’s waist. He then looked down at her with a somewhat childish expression as he asked, “Book?”

Cecilia laughed before replying, “Yes, my dove, we can get back to our book now. Perhaps you shall read a chapter for me instead of me reading to you?” When he smiled and nodded, taking one of her hands to lift it to his lips and press a long kiss to it, she turned back towards them. “Be good for your Commander, my girl.”

“I’m _always_ good,” grumbled Meryell in response while wearily closing her eyes. As she listened to the pair walk off, she was aware of Cullen sliding his arms around her until he locked his fingers across her belly. For a long moment they sat like that in silence until she slitted an eye open to look up at the underside of his jaw, ever littered with a line of stubble. Very quietly she asked, “Are you angry at me?”

She felt him stiffen for a moment then he relaxed, shaking his head before he bowed it to press a kiss against her forehead.

“No, dear thief,” he replied softly. “Merely a little disappointed that you weren’t taking care of yourself tonight. Supper is important, particularly if you’re drinking.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Meryell opened her other eye and said, “I believe that’s the mabari talking about kaddis.” His neck flushed immediately in response before he growled in frustration and lifted his head sharply back up and away.

“My bad habits,” Cullen grumbled, “are no reason for _you_ to start doing the same. Now, do you think you can walk or am I going to have to carry you?”

Flinching a little because she got the feeling she’d struck a bit of a nerve, she replied, “Carry. Cullen I…”

“Hush, _vhen-an-arah_.”

“But that’s…”

“ _Shhh_ ,” he said, more than a little forcefully and she went quiet because damn the man but he was _stubborn_ . Now annoyed and already hurting in the head from her impending hangover, Meryell proceeded to start alternatively squirming and going utterly limp as he tried to pick her up. Cullen kept letting out exasperated huffs of breath in response, which were followed by growls, and then finally a darkly rumbled, “ _Fuck it._ ”

Then Meryell’s whole world lurched, her stomach rolled, and she found herself high off the ground looking down at the stones of the battlements. Groaning, she closed her eyes as she realized that Cullen had thrown her over his shoulder once he started moving and the stones started to _swim_ . He merely let out a grunt in response and grumbled, “I care for you but _damnit_ , Meryell, if you’re going to be stubborn, I’ll treat you like one of my men. Hangover or no hangover.”

Clenching her eyes shut and trying to swallow the lump of bile trying to rise in her throat, she hissed, “I don’t think you’d throw one of your men over your shoulder if they were drunk.”

“If I’m the only one sober enough to get them back to their tent, I certainly will.” He then added, and _fuck the man_ , she could hear the smirk in his tone, “And try not to spew down my backside. I have it upon good authority that it’s much appreciated. One of the mages and an Antivan woman from your company were particular to be sure I knew it too before that man, Rhiryd, found me.”

Half of her wanted to do it just to _spite him_.

The other half was amused because that sounded like he was trying to get a rise out of her via jealousy.

“Nah,” she replied as airily as she could folded in half over his broad shoulder, “I like your ass too much to ruin it, even temporarily.”

He hummed in reply and she was aware of them passing through one of the still abandoned towers that sat between the third floor doorway of the tavern and his own tower. Now his pace was slowing down from the abrupt, almost march that he’d first broken into when he’d slung her over his shoulder. By the time they reached the door of his tower, it was a sedate walk that didn’t do one thing to jostle her.

Then Cullen was sliding her off of his shoulder and carefully depositing her in his chair, an uncomfortable looking thing while sober but apparently _fantastic_ while absolutely limp from drunkeness. He brushed hair away from her face with a gentle touch, old calluses catching her skin, and softly said, “Try not to fall out of my chair, hmm?”

Meryell tried to smile in reply, saying, “No promises.”

He snorted a laugh then pulled away, walking across the main area of the office back towards the door. She heard what sounded like him climbing the ladder she knew lead up to the wooden second floor of that part of the tower and frowned.

“Cullen?” she called out, not certain her voice would reach him with how weak it sounded to her own ears.

“Yes, dear thief?”

“I thought you didn't have a second floor yet.

The last time she'd been in the tower, it had been deemed a hazard and judged in need of serious rebuilding.

“Apparently,” he called back, sounding more than a little exasperated, “Josephine decided that I needed to be rewarded for all of my hard work. That and, apparently as well, you needed somewhere decent to sleep that wasn't a tent given that you're now Inquisitor. Until she finishes whatever her project for you is, that is.”

The fact that Josephine already made the assumption that she would be spending her time in Cullen's bed made Meryell both deliriously warm and embarrassed at the same time. Mostly for him since he was really at his core a very private man.

She had apparently gotten lost in thought because she suddenly become aware that he was half sitting on the edge of his desk, looking down at her with a bemused expression. If she'd felt better, she probably would have arched her back and batted her eyebrows while asking him if he saw something he liked. Instead Meryell just smiled and murmured tiredly, “Hi.”

“Hi,” he replied. Standing up, he then bent over her and slid his arms around her, hands finding her hips and lifting her up out of the chair with ease. “Let's get you into bed.”

“Mmph,” was all the reply she could make as he lifted her high up onto his chest. She did manage to wrap her arms around his neck and tuck her knees about his ribs to hang on before she buried her face in the fur of his coat. His left arm locked around her back, holding her tightly to him as he carried across the room and slowly climbed the ladder.

Meryell turned her head as they crested the wooden floor and found the space to be as simple as she'd expected. There were his two personal chests tucked against a wall, a new armor stand (as the other had been left in Haven) which currently held his normal plate, a small metal brazier burning merrily in the center of the floor with a fresh flame to heat the area, and a small side table with drawers that had a low burning candle sitting on top of it along with a clay cup and pitcher and a book. Of course,there was also the bed but she only saw a glimpse of its battered looking headboard before she was lowered onto the edge.

Suddenly flustered by her state, because she knew she was covered in both spilled alcohol and her own puke in spots, she said, “Don't sit me on your bed, I've got…”

“ _Shhh_ ,” bid Cullen, his hands already deftly tugging at where her belt was looped around itself. “I have a plan, dear thief. Trust me.”

As if there was any question of her doing just that.

So Meryell tried to relax and let him go about his _plan_ . Relaxing, however, was more than a little hard because his hands were on her. His hands were _undressing her_. Every touch set her pulse to jumping. Each brush of his fingertips across cloth and leather and the hint of skin had her breathing go fast and heavy.

And she could _hear_ his breathing as it sped up as well, could _feel_ the slightly nervous stutter in his hands that was decidedly _not_ fucking caused by lyrium withdrawal.

As Cullen pulled her shirt up and over her head, a motion that required him to lean in close from where he sat on his knees in front of her as her limbs were all practically limp at this point, he leaned in to press a kiss against her collarbone. His breath was hot against her skin and his lips dry from it still being cold outside but the _kiss_. Fucking Maker and his flaming Bride, that kiss set her on _fire_.

He leaned back just as quickly as he'd moved forward and Meryell could see even in the flickering light from the candle that the dark of his eyes were blown wide, nearly drowning out the amber. There was also a naked _want_ on his face and she was ever so painfully regretting every drink of the night now

“You are beautiful,” he growled and she managed a tired smile.

“And you haven't even gotten my breastband off yet,” she commented, words that made that delicious growl she'd discovered when scratching his back ages ago come out. The one that rumbled out from deep in his chest and felt like it rattled her bones.

Cullen's eyes flicked down to the fabric that was the last thing hiding the whole of her chest from him. Her breasts weren't much, kept at barely more than a handful for her own hands due to the life she lived keeping her fairly fit, and most men she'd been with had never paid too much attention to them. Really it had ever only been just enough for them to get their cock inside her. Meanwhile, Cullen looked at her breastband like he wanted to set it on _fire_.

Another growl slipped out of him and Meryell watched him expel a long, slow breath. Then he dropped her shirt on the floor next to the bed and turned his attention to the her boots. With quick, methodical motions he loosened the leather ties that held her boots close against her calves and slid them off. Her socks - new and ridiculously warm, a gift knitted by one of the women who'd survived Haven - followed and then his fingers were tugging at the laces of her pants since he'd already pulled her belt apart

Breathing heavily, Meryell asked, “Do you want me to…”

“No,” interrupted Cullen with a growl. He flicked his eyes up at her as he tugged the last tie loose enough that he could slide his thumbs underneath the heavy fabric. Then he rose up so his face was nearly level with hers and pressed a soft kiss to her lips as he murmured, “Let me take care of you, dear thief.”

She tried to quirk an eyebrow but wasn't entirely sure she succeeded before asking, “And what exactly does _taking care of me_ imply, ser?”

“At the moment,” he answered as he settled back onto his heels, “getting you out of these clothes.”

“And after?”

Cullen flashed her a look before smiling as he wriggled her pants slowly down over her hips. As he continued working them free, he replied, “As much as I'm tempted to do other things, sleep is the goal for the night.”

“ _Sleep?_ ” repeated Meryell, a little exasperated. “ _Vhen’an’ara_ , I don't know if I'll be able to fucking sleep tonight after what you've put me through.”

“Lies, you're as good as falling asleep on me right now.”

It _was_ true since she was barely keeping her eyes open even with everything his actions were making her feel but she wasn't about to let that stop her from arguing.

“Nuh-uh,” she said childishly.

“I will not argue with you like a child.”

At that she blew a raspberry at him and he laughed before finally freeing her legs from her pants. As he laid them on top of her shirt, Meryell suddenly felt overly _exposed_ by the fact that she was in only her under things on his bed. In response, she shifted her heavy feeling arms into action, trying to fold them across her chest. Cullen caught her mid-motion and laced his fingers through hers as he pulled them away again.

“You are _beautiful_ ,” he repeated and she flushed.

“You keep saying that but I'm not sure that makes it true.”

He shook his head at that, saying, “ _Believe me, vhen-an-arah_. You are.”

Meryell shook her head and argued, “I'm _tiny_ . Breasts, body, hips, every bit is fucking _sparse_.”

Cullen huffed angrily at her before replying, “You are _enough_ for me, Meryell Verlen.” And suddenly it didn't seem like he was talking about her body but about her self doubts.

Squeezing her fingers around his where he'd laced them together, she breathed, “And you for me, Cullen Rutherford.” He smiled at that, all bright and shining but also a little shy, and then lifted their joined hands to press a kiss against the backs of hers.

A moment later he freed his hands and asked, “Do you want a shirt? The brazier never lasts long and it'll get cold thanks to the hole.”

“ _Hole?_ ” repeated Meryell. She then turned her head to the left and realized that there was a huge section of his wall that was _damned well missing_. Literally the only thing covering it was a large heavy oil cloth that only blocked half, likely enough to keep rain from getting in. “Josephine didn't fix that?”

“I...I may have asked her not to.”

At the uneasy sound of his voice, she turned to look at him where he'd moved away to his chests, digging through them with his back to her. There was a sudden stiffness to his shoulders and even with as slow as her mind was right then, she connected the dots.

 _Kinloch_. Being trapped at the top of the Tower. Why he usually always kept one flap at the end of his tent untied. It had always rung vaguely of a fear of enclosed spaces but she'd never made the connection until now.

“Oh,” was all she found to reply rather numbly. Rather than going on with that line of discussion because she respected his decision to not talk about what had happened to him, she asked, “Is it a warm shirt?”

He let out a somewhat strained chuckle in response, replying, “Warm enough. Do remember _I'm_ getting into bed with you.” Not only did the words send a thrill up her spine but she was reassured that she wouldn't be cold. She had been deliciously warm in those hours when they'd been jammed together into her cot in the healer's tent after her long walk.

“One would expect nothing less since it's _your bed_.”

Cullen chuckled in response then closed the trunk, turning back towards her. He had a threadbare looking tunic in his hands, one that looked like it had seen many years of wear and tear judging by the patches in it. It was a deep red with long sleeves that were once capable of being fitted at the wrist but was now missing its ties and long in length, likely long enough to be practically a dress on her. He then tweaked it by the shoulders and she saw the Sword of Mercy was stitched in pale yellow thread across the front.

“That's a…”

“My training tunic,” interjected Cullen. “One of them from when I was, as you would say it, eight and ten. I'm not sure why I kept it. Memory of my last hours before taking my vows, perhaps.” He then grimaced and added, “If you don't want to wear it, I can…”

“Cullen, _no,_ ” breathed Meryell, shaking her head. Did he not know what he was offering her? This was not merely a shirt worn every day, not something from the last few years. This was from the last remnants of his boyhood, from when he'd stepped fully into the life of a templar and the terrible things that had happened to him during it. The things that had brought him _here_ , to this moment with her. It only made her _lo_...care for him all the more that he was willing to share it with her.

Extending her slightly shaking arms, hands palms up towards him, she asked softly, “Help me put it on?”

His expression softened and he breathed, “Of course, dear thief,” before crossing the room to her. Every touch of his hands was gentle as he maneuvered her into the shirt before finally he pressed them flat against her ribs, the heel of his hands braced on either side of the symbol of his old Order. She had been right, of course, that it would be more like a dress on her. If she were standing the bunched up folds around her waist would probably just barely graze the tops of her knees.

There was a look in his eyes that she couldn't quite decipher then he leaned forward to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Get under the covers. I'll be there in a moment.”

Meryell needed no other incentive other than that and smiled as she slowly crawled her way across the bed. As soon as she slipped under the covers on one side and tugged a pillow underneath her head, she felt exhaustion finally hit her like a battering ram. She fought to keep her eyes open over the next few moments, knowing that any minute she was going to lose her hold on consciousness.

Thus she wasn't even aware when Cullen slid into the bed next to her, only realizing it when her eyes fluttered open to find his face inches from hers. She realized then too that she had been drawn up against his body, held there by the loop of one arm, and that he was bare but for a pair of loose pants of some of soft material. His hand gently stroked hairs away from her face as he looked at her with soft eyes and a gentle smile.

There were no stern planes to his face here, no set to his jaw, no seriousness. Here he was not _Commander_ Cullen, no, here he was merely _Cullen_. The man, not the former templar or the general or even the lyrium addict.

The difference took _years_ off of his face.

“ _Vhen-an-arah_ ,” he said softly, his voice a gentle rumble, “you should sleep.”

“Will you?” Meryell asked fuzzily. Wasn't there something she'd been intending on telling him?

Cullen chuckled and replied, “I will. I sleep better when you're nearby anyway.”

“Oh. Good.”

He laughed and shifted forward to press a kiss against her lips, humming contentedly when she returned it. “ _Sleep_ ,” he bid, his tone commanding, and she found no reason to argue against the almost order.

Meryell merely squirmed her way into her preferred place against him, with her head tucked under his chin and one hand folded against his chest to feel to steady beat of his heart. Whatever it was that she'd forgotten would just have to wait as all clear thought fled from her a moment later, exhaustion and the heat of him dragging her firmly into the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>     
> escandaloso - scandalous (Spanish)  
> cuchilla - knife (Spanish


	24. “I am torn between the thing that I want and what my brain thinks I should be doing.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell leaves on a trip that will take her through the Hinterlands and down into the Fallow Mire and Cullen's brain takes the opportunity her absence affords to start thinking about things he doesn't want to consider. Of course, Cassandra, his normal person to sometimes talk to about issues bothering him is with the very person he's stressing over. So he has to go looking for an alternate sounding board...who won't potentially murder him outright for even thinking the thing's his traitorous brain has thought up.

His brain - traitorous thing that it was - said that this was the right decision to make.

His heart, on the other hand, felt like it was breaking at what he was considering.

Burying his head in his hands, Cullen leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk. He was _mad_ to be thinking what he was.

And yet his brain wouldn’t _shut up_ about fucking protocol and what could come out of continuing the delicate relationship he had with Meryell any further onward. It wasn’t that people hadn’t seen them together; no, the whole of Haven had been certain that they were far more of a couple than they actually were for _months_. He knew, he overheard the gossip himself and got informed of some of it by both his own men, Cassandra, and unsigned notes left on his desk that were in Leliana’s hand. And everyone who'd survived Haven had heard the tale of what had seemed to be a last desperate kiss - their first, though only a few knew that detail.

 _They_ weren’t who he was worried about.

He was concerned about those to come: the soldiers, the diplomats, the needy who were flocking ever more to the banner of the Inquisition. With Skyhold and their ever growing force that was spread out in makeshift tents and huts on the plains below the keep with the bulk of the fighting force, they couldn’t always be seen together like they had been. Could not sit comfortably in the tavern with the knowledge that no one would bother them.

He was ever looking at more and more paperwork with the bulk of the real soldiering left to his lieutenants, the mantle of Commander tugging him deeper under its hold.

And Meryell was the _Inquisitor_ now. Not just the Herald or the foul-mouthed elf that he cared for beyond reason.

She _was_ the damned Inquisition.

Pressing his fingers against his eyelids, Cullen muttered a blistering line of curses that would have drawn surprised looks from his men and an impressed whistle from Meryell. _Logic_ and _protocol_ that had been drilled into him for all the years he’d been in the templars screamed that he could not be with her as her subordinate. They’d already seen how well that had worked out in Haven when everything had been on the line and they’d taken precious time needed to face the force outside to kiss in a corner. It was a potentially dangerous mistake that they could never afford happening again.

And yet…

And yet, his heart labored in his chest at the thought of losing her. Not to death but to _duty_. To never be able to rest his arms comfortably across her shoulders again, her warmth steady and more than a little drunk against his side. Never curl his fingers into her short hair while his lips pressed hard against her forehead while he shook as her small callused fingers tentatively slid underneath the edge of his tunic to stroke his stomach. To never hold her against him as he'd done that night before she'd left for the Hinterlands or undress her or sleep with her breath soft against his throat. He would perhaps never know how she felt bare against him and slicked with sweat from love making if he took that path.

Just as Cullen hadn’t been ever fully certain he would have healed from her dying in Haven, he didn’t think he’d ever entirely recover from losing her. He didn’t dare say that he loved her - he _did_ but he wasn’t sure yet that it was _that_ kind of love - but he cared deeply for her. She had never berated him for his past after learning it but had never let him back away from the fact that the things he had done had been wrong. No, Meryell had merely accepted them as having happened and told him _do better_ . Even when he’d woken her up in the throes of a nightmare - never certain of where he was and struggling against the constraints of their covers - she had simply waited for reality to resettle back for him before tugging him back down against her, kissing his forehead as she curled her fingers into his hair as if to secure him to the _then and now_ and to _her_.

She was so much fucking more than a broken addict like him deserved.

Abruptly rising to his feet, Cullen drew in a sharp gasp of air and wiped away the moisture threatening the corner of his eyes. He _could not_ discuss this with Folke. The hedge mage would not be reasonable at all given that his daughter was involved in the discussion. That and he was certain that Folke would see even thinking about going through with leaving her as hurting Meryell and Cullen would be forced by his own honor to give in to his promise of putting himself at the older man’s mercy if he did such a thing.

Maker, he’d practically fling himself at the hedge mage’s feet right now just for having the thought.

So _who_ could he go to to discuss this?

If Cassandra had been in Skyhold, she would have been his first choice as she was both his friend and Meryell’s. She, however, was on her way back down to the Hinterlands with the woman that he was conflicted over along with Dorian and Sera to check on their forces that had been left behind there after they’d fled Haven.

He wasn’t going to give Leliana any further ammunition than she might already have. Josephine was an option but she was even more busy than he usually was nowadays. That and he was more than a little fearful that their ambassador would recommend that he go with the first option. Even with what she'd done to finish his rooms, he still feared censure from her. Neither of them, however, were very close to Meryell so he pushed them out of mind.

Cullen wasn’t close enough to any of the other inner circle to approach them, though he was gaining an appreciation of Blackwall as the man had taken up training with his soldiers (often alongside the Iron Bull, Cassandra, and Captain Arnald) and had a fine hand at training some of the younger ones. That didn’t mean he was the one to go to about this.

Stretching his hand across his face to rub both temples at the same time, he was suddenly hit with an epiphany.

There _was_ someone who knew Meryell well and himself decently enough. Who stood a lower possibility of pulling a Folke on him, though he wasn’t entirely certain of that.

Striding out of his tower onto the battlements, Cullen quickly descended the closest stairs that led down behind the stable and asked one of Dennet’s new hands - a scrawny little whelp of a boy who had ended up an orphan from Haven - to see about getting his horse ready.

He needed to head down into the Fangs’ camp.

* * *

“Commander! Didn’t expect you down here so soon!” greeted Zarru as he rode into the camp, the dark-skinned woman standing in a wide-legged stance before a group of the mercenaries who were training some of their newest recruits. She was wearing far less than she normally was, steel set aside for more flowing Rivaini garb that showed off more of the tattoos that lined her flesh, despite the fact that it was still winter. He’d have expected a northern-born soul like her to have been more the sort to cover up in the south but guessed that she’d gotten used to different climates over the years.

From what he’d been able to garner from conversations with Meryell and Folke about the company’s second-in-command, she’d been a pirate from a young age before becoming a mercenary after some incident on the sea had made her put that life behind her.

“Zarru,” he replied, inclining his head as he slid down from the back of the big grey beast that Dennet had said was the horse for him. Patting its neck before he turned over the reins to one of the company youths who’d run up to take it, Cullen flicked his eyes over their new recruits before he could stop himself. Habit of years being in charge of men and women who were as likely to hurt each other as themselves. “New blood?”

“New blood for the ground at this rate,” replied the woman seriously. “Most of them aren’t much in a fight. Farmers and the lot...though I s’pose you deal with the same.”

“So I’m told,” grumbled Cullen, more than a little annoyed at himself for not currently having the time to observe his own men.

Zarru snorted at that. “Well,” she drawled, “I hope you and yours have more luck. Harvard was always better with the young ones but, eh, we Fangs make do. Someone will replace the old man eventually.”

Abruptly he recalled that the old man had been one of the casualties of the Fangs and the loss had been one that had torn Meryell up. He’d been the trainer of their recruits for years and had always had a soft spot for, in her words, a foul-mouthed brat. Yet, at more than seventy years old, Harvard had picked up a sword alongside the rest of the Fangs and had fought like a man half his age against the force that had come down on their heads in Haven. His death had been one of the witnessed one, with one of the Fang’s archers - the former Dalish elf that Meryell had introduced as Pod during their long walk to Skyhold - saying with surety that he’d fallen while defending the wagons that had left by the lower gate outside of Haven.

Having already made his condolences with Arnald and Zarru about the losses the company had suffered, Cullen said simply, “One can only hope that his replacement will turn out as good of Fangs as he did.”

The woman grinned at him, her teeth bright white against the dark of her skin, before she crossed her arms and turned her attention back fully to the new recruits. “So,” she drawled after a moment, “sure you didn’t come down here to bullshit with me, Commander. And since our Meryell’s out and Folke’s up top at what you lot are calling a _mage tower_ , I’m guessing you’re hunting the captain.”

“I am.”

Zarru nodded then jerked her head towards the right in the direction of a modest sized tent with dark canvas and one of the Fangs banners planted in front of it. “He’s in there doing some sort of plotting for the job we’re supposed to go help with down in the Fallow Mire. Just announce who you are before you walk in.” She broke off with another grin before finishing, “Our Meryell wouldn’t be too happy to come back and learn that we’d knifed what’s hers.”

Feeling his neck flush at both the words as well as the reminder of what he’d come down here for in the first place, Cullen nodded his thanks and headed that way. As he reached the tent, he started to extend an arm to scratch against the canvas in the way that his own soldiers usually did to announce their presence but was interrupted by Arnald poking his head out from between the closed flaps.

“Ah,” commented the older man, his eyes blinking against the light of the afternoon sun in that way that said he’d been in the dark for too long. “I thought I heard your voice, Commander. Come in, come in.” Then the Orlesian man’s head disappeared back into the tent and Cullen followed, blinking his own eyes several times as they adjusted to the dim.

And he thought _he_ had problems keeping track of when candles needed to be lit to have light to work by. Arnald seemed to have made it into an art given that he seemed to have been working for some time over the desk in what at first seemed like near darkness.

The Captain cursed as he muddled around the tent for a moment before he came up obviously fiddling with something that Cullen couldn’t quite make out yet. “Forgive me, Commander,” he said. “I often miss the point when I need light to work by. Zarru often reminds me that it’s going to one day cost me my eyes sooner than later.”

Waving a hand, Cullen replied, “No need to apologize.” He lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck quite before he was aware to be doing it and let the motion lie. “I’m a culprit of the same myself.”

“Burden of command,” Arnald noted with a smile that could now be seen as he lit the candle wick he’d been fiddling with and planted the stand he’d set it into into a hole in the absolute chaos that was the table that occupied most of the tent. He shuffled papers further away from it for a moment before he lifted an actual chair by it’s back and canted it towards Cullen. “Here, have a seat and tell me what brings you down from the lofty heights.”

As he took the chair, Cullen smiled, saying, “I’m not sure Skyhold counts as _lofty_.”

“She’s above our heads, is she not?” replied Arnald as he manhandled another chair out from under the table and sat down in it. “Now...what’s this visit about? Surely it’s not the job down in the Fallow Mire as we’ve already met to plan that out and you stated fairly clearly the last time that it’s solid.”

“Ah...no. It’s not about that.”

Arnald arched a graying eyebrow and Cullen sighed before he leaned forward, resting his elbows heavily on his knees as he closed his eyes and fought the sudden upwell of terror and disgust. He could _do this_ . He was no longer that tormented child who’d barely escaped Kinloch with the last shreds of his sanity. There was no _shame_ in seeking out help and advice.

“Commander?”

“May we speak as...friends?” asked Cullen abruptly. “Of a sort?”

There was a long pause from the other man and then Arnald said gently, “You come seeking advice on something. Something which there is no one else - at least here - that you may go to for?”

It was rather _fucking_ _terrifying_ how well anyone who claimed the title of _spymaster_ could read him sometimes. Leliana had the same damned trait and used it like the point of a knife most times to dig out what she wanted to know. Thankfully Arnald had always seemed a little more kind about it.

Opening his eyes, Cullen looked at the other man for a long moment before he simply nodded. In return Arnald simply ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair and gestured wordlessly with one hand for him to begin whenever he wanted.

It took more time than he was comfortable admitting to get his tongue to untie itself from the knot it was abruptly in so he could say softly, “It’s about Meryell.”

“Ah.” The Captain nodded his head before adding, “Hence why you are here with me and not Folke.”

“Yes.”

Arnald sat in silence and Cullen closed his eyes briefly before reopening them to look at the man patiently waiting on him to begin. Given the closeness that he’d observed in the Fangs - least of all how every one of them referred to Meryell as _our Meryell_ \- he imagined that the Captain had sat with his men in many meetings such as this. He was a listener and a far better one than Cullen had been attempting to be since the Gallows had become a veritable war zone along with Kirkwall.

Blowing out air between his teeth, he finally began, “I am torn between the thing that I want and what my brain thinks I should be doing.” Sitting up, Cullen gestured with one hand as he continued, “On the one side, I have _logic_ , which dictates that the relationship between a commander and a subordinate shouldn’t be one of…” _Love_ is the word he wants to put there but his throat tightens around it and refuses to let it loose. “...anything more than respect.”

Holding out his other hand, he added, “On the other side, I have my _heart_ , which…”

“Wants things,” interjected Arnald, his soft tone and the slightly distant look in his eyes saying more than anything. “Things that the logical side of you, _the soldier_ , believes are not yours for the having.”

 _Maker’s breath_.

All he could do was nod and the Captain smiled before he stood, moving around to the far side of the tent where a smaller table sits. He picked up a bottle from it and two cups, returning with them held in one hand as he pulled the cork on the bottle out with his teeth. Arnald poured a generous helping of golden looking liquid into both cups before he sat the bottle on the edge of the main table and extended one cup towards him.

As Cullen took it, the other man leaned back and lifted one leg to rest his booted ankle against his other knee. “I felt like that once,” Arnald mused as he took a sip from his cup. “When I still had my commission in the Imperial Army. I had just made sergeant and there was this _girl_ in a village. She was a sweet young thing but had an arm fit to nail any man a staggering blow with a sling. A farm girl, raised out in the countryside all her life, dedicated to herding sheep and milking cows.”

“What was her name?” Cullen asked softly as he lifted the cup to his own lips, smelling briefly before he tipped it to identify the liquor before it reached him. It wasn’t the vein of whiskey that Meryell preferred - hers was darker and had a deeper, woodier tang to it - but it wasn’t bad.

“Loyse,” replied Arnald with a smile that made his face seem several years younger. “She had the loveliest golden hair that fell past her waist, legs to drive a sane man wild, and blue eyes the color of the fountains of Val Royeaux. Ah, _mon amie_ , I drowned in those eyes many a night and spent many more worshipping the blessed fount between those perfect thighs.”

Despite feeling the blush rising up his neck at the man’s descriptors - Maker’s _cock_ , he was _thirty_ and had bedded at least _one_ woman in his life - Cullen managed to hold onto his composure.

“What happened?”

The other man smiled sadly and lifted his cup in a little bobbing salute towards nothing before answering, “Duty. Our station around the village came up and we were deemed ready to return home for a rest so as to visit our families. Of course I, young fool that I was, made a promise to Loyse that I could one day make an honest woman of her and give her my name. So I returned home, all alight with the news I was bringing to my family, before all of the shine was knocked off of it.”

“By your father?” asked Cullen, knowing that that was often the story behind a young man of noble blood who fell in with a peasant lass. The tale had always rankled his blood given that his own family had been simple farmers and any jumped up noble who thought to hurt his sisters like that had him going red in the eyes.

Snorting, Arnald replied, “No, no, of course not. If my father had cared that much about such noble shit, he’d never have allowed me to continue holding the family name.” He took another drink before continuing on. “No, Commander, that came from my mother. While my father believed in love matches, she certainly did not and expected me to be the good son and marry whosoever they told me to.”

“I was told very pointedly that I had a duty to uphold the Seraine name as well as her own family name of Gaiant despite having no solid connection to it except her. That _duty_ was more important than _love_ . Or whatever I thought was love since I _surely_ would never lower myself to love a peasant girl.”

Feeling like a pit opened in his stomach, Cullen said, “And you held to duty.”

Shrugging, the older man replied, “I was a good son. Second in my line, expected to be the shining example of service in the Army since my older brother was to hold up the family business and name. So, yes, Commander, to my greatest regret, I promptly cast aside all thought of wedding my dear Loyse.” Arnald’s mouth then twisted into a grimace as he added, “Until a few years later, of course, when a bitch-child not long off her own mother’s teat claimed I took her by force. When I had nothing to my name after that but the ability to still bear the name of Seraine and wear the colors, I rode back to that little village.”

“But she had moved on.”

“With a simple man who loved her and had already given her two sons by the time I rode back into her life, with a third child on the way. They put me up in their loft for a while since I had nothing then and I helped her man work their fields for a handful of months before I finally struck out. She kissed me right there in front of him - an act I’m still stunned he didn’t gut me for as I would have slain a man who touched her when she was mine - and said that she prayed I would find happiness somewhere else in the world.”

“Which,” continued Arnald before taking a long drink, “I did. I found the Fangs and worked my way up through the ranks until I earned the Captaincy in the vote when the space went void more than twenty years back.” He smiled as he looked at the dark walls of the tent, saying, “Perhaps it’s not the life that young sergeant I was imagined but it is a good life. I may not have any permanent warmth in my bed but I dare say that I have more children than any sane man could ever want in a lifetime.”

Leaning forward, the man stared Cullen in the eye, his dark eyes intense behind his ever present mask.

“If I could do it over again, however,” he growled in a low voice, “I would tell my mother where she could promptly stuff her lineage and that I would marry who I willed. So, my advice, _Cullen_ , that I highly recommend you follow, is to go with your heart and tell your head where it can fuck off to.”

“Is that as Meryell’s Captain,” asked Cullen as he resisted the urge to lean away from the man, “or as her secondary sort of father figure?”

Arnald just smiled. “We shall say both.”

Grimacing, Cullen gripped the cup with both hands as he growled out, “And what when we come to a situation like Haven again? How do I bury the need to keep her safe when _she_ has to be the one to face down the monster at our door? How do I hand her two shitty choices at the war table - shitty choices that could easily end up with her _dead_ \- and not hate myself? How do I defend her against the inevitable whispers that she’s abusing her authority as Inquisitor by having me in her bed?”

“For the first,” replied the older man, “you do the same damned thing you did in Haven. You take her aside, you kiss her, and then you _trust her_ to come back to you. Because Meryell will claw her way back through the fucking Void itself if Folke asked it of her and I imagine that you are either already or are soon to be on that same list.” He waved his cup laden hand flippantly then as he continued on, “For the second, you give her the choices, give her the best damned aid you can in making it out of whichever one she chooses, and you _trust her again_.”

Cullen swallowed before he asked, “And the last?”

Arnald smiled - a feral, menacing smile normally reserved for madmen - and replied in a low growl, “You love that girl with every fiber of your being and you either ignore the rumors because _you_ and _she_ and _every fucking soul that damned well matters_ know the truth. Either that or you stare them down with all the fury you’ve got that they _dare_ say such a thing before you tell them how far up the Maker’s soggy asshole they can _shove_ their worthless fucking opinion. Or, my favorite, _both_.”

Then the man abruptly relaxed, his smile turning back into the casual one that he usually wore, as he added, “That’s my advice anyway, Commander. Take it or leave it.”

Blinking several times at the man while wondering just how _sane_ he was to come to him - though still saner than going to _Folke_ with this - Cullen nodded before he tossed the remainder of the whiskey to the back of his throat. As it burned its way down into his gullet, he sat the cup down on the edge of the table and stood from the chair to smile down at the Fangs’ Captain.

“I’ll certainly take your advice and give it some serious thought,” he said slowly. “Thank you, Arnald.”

The older man grunted and waved a hand before he flashed a hint of that feral smile again.

“Just remember, Commander, that that girl has a veritable _herd_ of brothers and sisters who will go looking for the blood of the man who hurts her. I’ve even let them have one of our own when he fucked her over hard and the only thing that saved him was _her_ telling us to back off because the bastard wasn’t worth the effort of the bloodshed. Or losing a good bowman.” Arnald narrowed his eyes as he added, “Somehow I’m not under the impression that if _you_ break her heart that there will be such a rescue.”

Years ago Cullen might have blustered at the threat or even demanded that it be retracted because of his position. He was no longer that man, however, and he was certain that it wouldn’t be necessary anyway.

Despite saying that he was going to give it thought...he was already pretty sure which side he was going to fall on.

So he just smiled and said, “I’ll keep that in mind, Captain. Good luck in the Fallow Mire and see to it that our soldiers make it back in one piece.”

“Some of us will be leaving in two days to head that way to meet up with our girl to do just that,” replied Arnald with a smile. He then lifted his cup in a salute and said, “Have a good evening, Cullen. We should bullshit over drinks again when the both of us have the time. I enjoyed the few nights we managed it back in Haven.”

Chuckling, Cullen nodded in acquiescence of the request. He hadn’t had as many opportunities to do such with him or Folke as he had with Meryell but he had taken time out of his nights on the rare occasion when she hadn’t been in Haven to find one or both of them for a drink. It certainly wasn’t as entertaining as the nights he spent with her but he’d come to like both men during their talks.

“We should,” he replied. “Good evening yourself, Captain.”

With that he ducked out of the tent and immediately heard Zarru let out a loud whistle as she called out, “Bort! Bring the Commander his horse, lad!”

“Aye, ma’am!”

Smiling as he stood waiting, Cullen shifted his gaze over to Zarru, who looked at him with her head tilted curiously to one side in a way that made the beads in her thick strands of hair clack together.

“Sort out your problem, Commander?” she asked, her blue eyes startlingly bright in her dark face.

Nodding slightly, he replied, “I believe I did, Zarru.”

“Good,” she replied with a toothy grin. “I’d hate to have to knife you.”

“I’d hate to be knifed, so we’re even.”

She laughed at that and Cullen grinned at her before he reached out to grab the reins of his big horse from the different company youth that bolted up to deliver the beast back to him. Swinging back up into the saddle, he turned to head back up the hill with the Rivaini woman’s laughter in his ears accompanied by the sounds of training and the echo of Arnald’s words.

 _Duty_ _or love_ , he thought as he urged the horse back up the hill towards the heights, eager to get there before the sky got too dark. _That’s the core of the question._

Maker, he’d given _enough_ to fucking duty.

Perhaps it was time he _didn’t_.

Cullen laughed aloud as he reached Skyhold’s entrance bridge, shaking in the saddle as he steered his horse across it.

He’d expected the choice to be _hard_.

And...honestly...it was far too _easy_ a decision once he wasn’t scared to pick a side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
>  Translations  
>  **
> 
>  
> 
> mon amie - my friend (French)


	25. “I take you to the best places, don’t I?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Meryell heads to the Fallow Mire, gossips with Dorian, has a chat with Rhiryd about himself and the Avvar, and comes to a minor conclusion that she'd already really known.

“Darling, I hope you know that I absolutely _hate_ you right now.”

Meryell, who was leaning over the main map that the scouts had been working on for weeks of the Fallow Mire, glanced up and laughed out loud at the sight of the dripping wet Tevinter mage. Dorian’s normally well coiffed hair was in a right state thanks to the damp, rainy weather that they’d encountered so far since travelling down into the Fallow Mire and his moustache seemed to be drooping for the sheer purpose of giving it company. Why he’d decided to leave his nice warm tent was a damned mystery. They’d set up all of their tents during the lull of it _not_ raining when they’d arrived at Fisher’s End for that exact reason.

“You know you love me still. Even if I’ve ruined your boots,” she replied wryly as she turned her attention back to the map. There wasn’t really much there as the Fallow Mire pretty much lived up to its name and the undead had been plaguing their men as much as the group of Avvar in the area had. Of course, where the undead had just been killing them on occasion, the Avvar had actually caught them and were holding them captive somewhere deep in the region.

Hence why they were bunkered down in Fisher’s End waiting for the Fangs to meet up with them before they fully took the fight to the bastards.

“I am beginning to wonder why for just that reason,” muttered Dorian as he wrung out a sopping wet section of his robes. He then let out a truly theatrical sigh before making his way over to her, standing close enough to see the map but no so much as to where he’d drip on it. The map had probably seen worse than a few droplets of water already judging by what she was pretty certain was a bloodstain on one corner but the mage had a deep respect for paper, so she let it slide. “What are we looking at here, hmm?”

Shuffling a little to her left so he could get a better vantage point, Meryell replied, “What of this fucking piss pot of an area that the scouts have sussed out. _Baba_ and the rest determined that it _is_ demons animating the corpses, so whatever is happening here is a weakened Veil and not some sort of magic.”

The mage huffed out a laugh, saying, “That is both reassuring and not, though I’m certain you know that.”

“Fuck yes. So, we’ve got maybe _half_ of this region mapped out. Mostly it’s death and bogs from the impression I got from Harding when she gave me her report earlier, though there’s some kind of magical shit near this spot.” Reaching out, she tapped a location that was very nearly a straight shot forward from their camp, barely more than half a glass of walking judging by the notations on the map. “That,” Meryell continued, “is what Harding and her lead scout Lyda described as a hill with a menhir on it.”

Dorian arched his eyebrows and asked, “And what, darling, is so strange about a hill with a large _rock_ on it?”

“Because it's got what sure as shit sounds like a brazier for that veilfire stuff you and Chuckles can summon. Plus, it’s surrounded by demons if anyone gets too close.”

The mage rolled his eyes at that and moaned. “Maker forbid we go anywhere without demons!”

Meryell just grinned at his moaning and said, “I take you to the _best_ places, don’t I?”

“Darling, I _will_ set you on fire.”

“Even though you still love me?”

“ _Especially_ because I still love you.”

Snorting a laugh, she leaned over and tapped on another marker on the map, saying, “Well, whenever the Fangs get here, getting over here will be our goal for that day. There’s apparently some sort of shallow cave in a rock there that the scouts figure will make a good camp for pressing onward.”

Dorian sniffed at that before asking, “And _when_ , dare I ask, will the rest of your lovely family arrive?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I hate you even more.”

“Well,” drawled Meryell as she looped her arm around the mage’s shoulders as he was just a little taller than her, “if it’ll put me back into your good graces any, I packed a bottle of your favorite wine alongside my whiskey.”

His arm hooked around her waist in response, tugging her close against his sodden side but she didn’t protest. They’d have to go out in the wet to get to the alcohol anyway so she was already settled to the fact that she was going to end up at a similar state to him. Had been since they’d first set foot at the edge of the whole region, in fact.

Dorian hummed and said, “I suddenly find myself a little less inclined to hate you, darling. A glass of wine...or two...before bed, though, might just bring me back to feeling neutral about you.”

Laughing, she noted, “Have I told you that I am so fucking happy that I can bribe you with alcohol, Dorian?”

“No, but you can tell me over our drinks tonight. Alongside some gossip about your night with the Commander when the tavern opened, hmm? I heard you were _carried off_ by him.”

Meryell snorted and grunted, “Like a sack of _potatoes_.”

“Now, now,” tutted Dorian as he paused at the door of the tent, peering at the dreary gray of the outside world with disdainful eyes, “that’s hardly romantic, darling.”

“Well no, but I was being a bit of a bitch to him at the time.”

“And _later_?”

Reaching around with her free hand to smack him, she replied, “In my tent, _darling_. Where the alcohol’s at?” Dorian was actually one of the few she would talk about her and Cullen to more in depth as he knew when to keep his mouth shut about certain things. He also, unlike Cassandra, made her feel like she was gossiping with the Fangs as he had no qualms at saying all the things appreciable about Cullen.

Sighing theatrically again, the mage grumbled, “Oh, very well. Here, here, let me put a barrier up for all the little it will do to protect us on the move…now _run_ !” They immediately dashed from the tent at his exclamation, she giggling hysterically while he cursed bloody murder in Tevene, before they stumbled into her own tent. Dripping wet, Meryell brushed her hair back out of her eyes while making a mental note that she needed to actually _cut_ the mess back to her normal length before she bent over to pull a sealed wine bottle out of her open pack.

As soon as she handed it over to the mage, she started stripping out of her leathers so they could dry a little and Dorian whistled at her.

“If I knew getting you wet was all it took to get you out of your clothes, darling, I’d have gotten you naked in front of the Commander _ages_ ago. Shall I tell him that you stripped for me when we return to Skyhold to make him jealous?”

Sticking out her tongue in response, Meryell replied, “What makes you think I haven’t stripped for him before?” She hadn't (yet) but he didn't need to know that they usually still went to sleep in their clothes. Though after that one night in his room that might be changing.

Dorian just waggled his eyebrows in response before he settled on the floor of her tent, long fingers curled around the neck of the wine bottle. “Because I know that neither of you have, ahem, _done the nasty_ yet as our ever eloquent Sera would declare.” He then pouted, saying, “No _glasses_?”

“No glasses,” she replied as she finished stacking her gear up in a dry section before plopping down on the ground near him in her sodden breeches and long-sleeved shirt, reaching for her own bottle as soon as she was settled.

“Such _barbarism_.”

Snorting, Meryell tugged open the cork on her whiskey, smiling around the mouth of the bottle as she took a long swig while he worked to get his wine open. “What do you expect?” she asked a moment later. “I _am_ a barbaric Ferelden by birth, you know.”

Dorian sniffed before saying, “Honestly, dragging me down into your heathen ways. Why, if I ever go back to Tevinter, it will be a _scandal._ ”

“You _love_ scandal.”

“Why, yes, I do.” He finally got the cork on his bottle and took a much more elegant drink from it than she had from hers. “ _Now_ ,” he said seriously, “I believe you owe me a story.”

With a laugh, Meryell shifted around where she could lean her shoulder against his and settled in for a long night of slightly tipsy shenanigans with her friend.

* * *

Eight days later, covered in demon gore and undead gunk and the stickiest mud she'd ever encountered, Meryell glared at the ancient keep lurking ahead of them from their temporary shelter in an old house. “Rhiryd,” she called behind her as the big Avvar man had been obviously included amongst the team of Fangs Arnald had sent actually into the Mire. The Captain had intended on being there himself but apparently something else with a caravan being harassed by Red Templars in a pass south of Haven had taken priority. So they ended up with a mixed group of Fangs and Inquisition leaving Skyhold and splitting off at a halfway point along the way instead with him at the head of the rescue group.

“Yes?” he asked as he came to stand beside the old stool deemed still sturdy that had been relegated to the seat occupied by whoever was keeping an eye on the keep through the hole in the wall. Meryell turned away from the wall to cock her head up at him in question.

“So,” she began, “this group we're up against, do you know of them?”

Rhiryd grunted in response and looked like he was chewing air for a moment before he replied, “Some. They are from Blue-Ram Hold. Tend to be...hmm...hot head. Quick to anger. Thane is good, keeps check most time if same as I knew.”

Nodding at his broken Common, which was better than it had been (teaching him had been Sister Cecilia’s pet project since they'd found the big man half-dead two years back at the edge of the Wilds while hunting bandits for a job) since he hadn't known anything but _yes_ and _no_ originally, she asked, “Did your Hold have much dealing with them?”

“Some,” he replied. “Before my Hold, Red-Lion, was took by black sick.”

“Black sick?” she repeated, not certain what he meant by the term.

He nodded and gestured vaguely with his hands, which she'd always registered were _huge_ , nearly three times the size of her own. They were heavy, square hands, meant for holding weapons and tools. Cullen's hands were similar in shape, which wasn't surprising as she remembered that the Avvar were one of the other Alamarri tribes like the one that most native human Fereldens were descended from.

“From eleven _samhradh_...sum...sum-mer? Yes, eleven summer ago.” He nodded to himself as he finished the sentence then continued, “The sickness took all land, all animal. Cecilia, she tell me that Wardens stop it, stop dragon that rule it.”

Meryell blinked several times because that sure as shit sounded like the Blight and she hadn't known that it had spread south enough to affect the Avvar. Then again, how could she have when she hadn't even been in Ferelden when it had nearly decimated her birth country.

“It destroyed your Hold?” she asked.

Rhiryd shook his head before replying, “Took most life, not all. I survive with some but Hold could not stand. Death took the _croí_ \- the heart - from the Hold. Killed the young and old, took our Thane, took our Hold-Beast. Those left were lost, broken.”

Arching an eyebrow, Meryell pressed, “And then?” because that surely wasn’t all to the story. Judging by the dark expression that immediately took over the Avvar’s face, it had been something that had gone against everything that Rhiryd believed in.

“Warrior returned to the Hold,” he growled, his teeth suddenly gritted in anger. Obviously this was something that he had held onto for the past decade, that still drove him. “He was hot head, never agree with Thane. Never want peace. Saw...moment? Ch-chance?”

“Opportunity?” she offered.

Nodding, Rhiryd confirmed, “Opp-or-tun-ity. Yes. Saw this to turn Hold. Claimed gods left us, abandon us. That is why Hold fell sick. That is why Hold died.” He then clenched his hands into fists and continued, “Did not trust him. He was no augur, could not speak to gods. He did not _know_. I not let him lead me away.”

Meryell frowned and gnawed on her lip for a moment. “But the others did.”

“Yes.”

The answer was short but there was so much behind the single word answer. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what that must have been like, to have survived the horrors of the Blight only to have the whole of his Hold - of his _family_ \- turn against him. Because it had been obvious when they’d found him that Rhiryd had been alone for a long time.

Impulsively reaching out, Meryell lightly touched his arm for a moment and as his eyes met hers, she said softly, “You know the company would never do that.”

A small smile graced his lips then and he nodded slightly. “Do not fear company falling to same. Could but doubt. Do not have those like him.” As she watched, he slowly relaxed, the tension easing out of his shoulders as he let his hands fall loose at his sides once more.

“No,” she agreed, “the Captain doesn’t take the sort like I’m guessing he was.” Then she shook her head and chuckled before adding, “Though we seem to have gotten off on a fucking tangent, Rhiryd.”

The big man laughed at that and said, “You ask, I answer. Did not know things of me. Were curious.” He then shrugged easily and gestured broadly with one hand towards the hole in the wall that she’d been keeping an eye through. “Blue-Ram are hot head, as said. Attack hard but slow. Prefer big weapons.”

“You think they’ll still be like that a some-odd decade since you were with your Hold?”

Rhiryd snorted loudly at that, drawing attention briefly to them from one or two of the Fangs that were still awake in the rickety house. As they settled back down, he replied, “Avvar never stay same. Always change. Most anyway.”

Cocking her head to the side, Meryell mused, “Let me guess, Blue-Ram Hold didn’t take too much to change.”

“Hot head not good for it. Bet drinks that they are same.”

“Now _that’s_ my kind of bet, Rhiryd.”

Chuckling, he nodded and she laughed before holding out one hand towards him. As he gripped it rather lightly for a man who walked so heavily and wielded a two-handed sword as tall as she was with ease, Meryell said, “Two rounds of drinks get bought by the loser?”

“Deal,” he answered before turning to leave her with her watch once more. Shaking her head after him in mild amusement, Meryell turned back towards her watch as she wasn’t about to be relieved for at least another two turns of the little hourglass that Astrid had brought to keep track of watches. She got the distinct feeling that she was going to lose their little bet but that would be perfectly fine.

Rhiryd seemed like the sort she’d like to have as something closer than just a general brother in the company. Plus, he was smitten with Sister Cecilia, who she had long adored. Anyone that the Sister approved of, was someone alright by her.

* * *

Seven hours later when they finally made their way into Hargrave Keep and spent a _ridiculously_ long fucking time whittling down the Avvar warrior who’d been calling himself the Hand of Korth (a title that made Rhiryd outright scoff every time he heard it), Meryell flopped down onto the top step of the stairs the idiot had been standing on next to the big man. Rhiryd grinned down at her as he leaned forward with his elbows propped on his knees and said, “Owe me two rounds.”

Shaking her head, she looked out over the bustle below them as bodies were dragged away and a temporary camp was set up inside the keep. Dorian was using his magic to bring the braziers and a fire someone had built in the center of the old hall to life while Urien and Slaine, the two mages who had come with the company contingent, set about healing the wounds of the Inquisition soldiers that they’d just rescued. The seven of them were bruised and battered but damnit they were _alive_ and half of that was because the man next to her had been right about the warriors from Blue-Ram Hold being slow and hot-headed.

They’d hit like fucking _Hinterlands bears_ , which wasn’t entirely encompassed by the description of them hitting hard, but she’d gotten plenty of practice with those during her time there with Cassandra and the rest.

“Three rounds,” Meryell replied as she smiled because _her people_ were safe. When he looked at her in surprise, she jerked her chin towards the sight in front of them. “Your knowledge of these Avvar helped save our people, Rhiryd.”

“Our?” he repeated softly, turning his gaze towards the others.

“They did name _me_ Inquisitor.”

He huffed out a laugh in response to that before saying, “Many thought them mind lost for such.”

“I thought they’d lost their shit when I got told about it too. But…” As her voice trailed off, Meryell chuckled as she thought about how quickly things had changed in her head as soon as word had come in that the Avvar had captured their scouts. Suddenly a dozen cheerful shouts of _Herald_ the moment she’d walked into the Singing Maiden had echoed through her head alongside smiles from scout and soldier and villager alike and then the heartbreaking recollection of poor Edan telling her _Send ‘em to the fucking Void_ through bloodstained teeth. As wary of being the Herald of Andraste as she had ever been or concerned about giving orders as Inquisitor, she’d known one thing for certain right then at the war table: that these people were _hers_ and she’d follow the Captain’s example to see right done by them. “But, fuck, I started thinking of them as mine a while ago to be honest.”

Rhiryd smiled and clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder, hard enough to rock her slightly forward. As she turned to look up at him, he grinned and said, “Then they are ours. Inquisition was wounded, lamed, by attack. Needs Fangs to keep fighting.”

Meryell just smiled and looked back over the group - _her people_ \- working in concert with each other.

“Yes,” she murmured, almost to herself as she nodded slightly, “the Inquisition needs its Fangs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
>  Translations  
>  **
> 
>  
> 
> samhradh - summer  
> croí - heart
> 
> The above are Irish.


	26. “This is not a room, Josephine. This is a fucking palace.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Meryell returns from the Fallow Mire, it is to find Josephine is ready to reveal her surprise: a great room at the top of Skyhold's main tower. At first she thinks it's overly much for someone like her...and then Meryell actually takes a look around the room.

“This is not a room, Josephine. This is a fucking _palace_.”

“Honestly, Inquisitor.”

“No, no,” said Meryell sharply as she made another turn in the center of the room, waving one hand in a circle around her head. “ _This_ is ridiculous. It’s the size of the damned dining hall at our keep below the Vimmarks.”

Josephine made a slight exasperated noise before she folded her hands in front of her and asked, “What sort of room did you have on the occasion you were not out on a job?”

Tilting her head to the side, she pointed at one of the two smaller spaces that were off the back of the overly large room at the top of Skyhold’s main tower. “A little bit wider than the bigger one. Oh, don’t look so fucking horrified. It’s enough space for a bed, my trunk, an armor stand, and a small bookshelf.”

“Inquisitor…”

“Josephine,” Meryell said in a sharp but still somehow gentle tone, “do remember that I grew up in an alienage.”

The other woman’s teeth shut with an audible _snap_ and then she shook herself, moving across the room with her hands held out in obvious request. Meryell submitted to the silent question and slipped her hands into the Antivan woman’s as she said, “Forgive me, Inquisitor, I didn’t think…”

“It’s _fine_ ,” she interrupted, cutting off whatever else was left of the apology. She hadn’t meant the alienage comment to have been a _bad_ thing because, other than her parents dying, it hadn’t been a bad life that she recalled. Sighing heavily, Meryell looked around the room again before shaking her head as she explained, “It’s a _lot_ of open space.”

“And that is a problem?”

“Open space is a luxury.”

Josephine looked absolutely _stricken_ and Meryell decided to take pity on the poor woman before she went and had herself a heart attack. Squeezing her hands, she asked, “ _Why_ do I need this much space? And don’t tell me it’s because I’m fucking Inquisitor because I didn’t want the job in the first place.”

“It was less about so much space and more about giving you a place for yourself,” replied the other woman. "It helped that it also placed your room above everything else, making it the most defensible. As it should be.”

"Uh-huh.” Meyell then sniffed and said, "That's a good plan and all, Josephine, but it has one problem. No, sorry, two, it has _two_ problems.”

As Josephine arched her eyebrows in question, she explained, “Half the time I’m either in _Cullen’s tower_ or _down in the Fangs’ camp_ . When I can find the time to even get to either _._ ”

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

And yet...the other woman was _smiling_.

Josephine shook her head and laughed before squeezing Meryell’s hands as she said, “Do you believe that any of us are worried when you are in those two places? It is well accepted fact now that your company is your family and that each and each one of you would do anything for the other.” The Antivan woman then smirked as she continued, “And the _Commander_ , of course, would do anything to keep you safe.”

Then her levity vanished and Meryell cocked her head to the side even as she tried not to blush - and failed _miserably_ \- at the comment about Cullen.

“It is not at those times that we worry about you,” Josephine explained, “but the others. Where do you go when the Commander is busy? When the majority of the Fangs are not here? When your father is gone?”

“I don’t...I don’t have a clear answer for that.”

There were a dozen places that she could answer: sitting with Varric at his table to chat with him while he wrote, curling up into the spare chair in Dorian’s alcove in the library to read in companionable silence, dozing on Chuckles’ couch to escape the inevitable botherers, ducking away with Sera to help her with some mischief or another, lying in the loft to watch Blackwall whittle while he fielded questions of _do you know where the Inquisitor is_ with a shrug, practicing with Cassandra until they moved as one, throwing herself bodily into the pile of Chargers normally in the Rest to hide and chat with Krem and Bull. None of those were the worrisome ones though. No, those were probably her frequent trips around Skyhold and back and forth to their camps down in the valley. Alternatively, there were the runs she'd been making through the kitchen, infirmary, or just tent-to-tent to make sure everyone was getting what they needed. And she'd been doing that before all of this Inquisitor shit came down the line.

“And that is why we wish to give you this room. You are…”

The woman abruptly turned her head away, blinking several times, and Meryell leaned forward in concern. “Josephine…?”

“I am fine,” she insisted with a tight smile, squeezing her fingers again. Then the Antivan woman said a little breathlessly, “I do not think you realize entirely yet what you mean to us. To all of the Inquisition.”

Meryell frowned at that, wondering where this was going.

“You are an _elf_ , Meryell,” continued Josephine, using her name in that same breathless tone, the first time she’d done it outside of the war room. “Though so many of us know different, there are some that believe the stories that have been passed down over such long years about elves. There are also those, of course, who believe the lie that pointed ears somehow make you a lesser being.”

Shaking her head, the woman went on.

“Not to mention, you are a _mercenary_. A fact which you have never feared to proclaim and never hid despite the fact that I tried so hard to keep it a secret.”

Laughing briefly, Meryell said, “Sorry. Never seen one fucking reason to deny what I am.”

“Which is a thing I actually respect about you. That is not my point, however.” Josephine paused for a breath before going on, “What people think they know of the world tells them that elves and mercenaries are a certain way. It is what they expect. _You_ have changed that.”

Blinking, she began, “But I haven’t...done _anything_. I’ve just been…”

“You?” queried the other woman with a laugh. “And that seems to be precisely what the people love about you. You aren’t afraid to get your hands dirty to help them. They’ve seen you laughing and talking and drinking right amongst them in the tavern. You've even brought the Commander there. It makes you…”

“A person, not a figurehead,” interjected Meryell. One of the very things she'd noted months ago that such behavior made them. She wasn't just the Herald, she was _one of them_.

Josephine nodded and said a quiet, “Yes,” with a bright smile. Then she laughed and added, “I _will_ be rather affronted if you decide to not use the room. There was much work put into it and input taken from all of your company before you left two months ago for the Hinterlands and Fallow Mire.”

Tilting her head in silent question, she blinked at the woman. When all she got in response was Josephine freeing her hands so she could twirl them in a spinning motion, Meryell rolled her eyes but did as she was bid.

This time, as she turned to look at the room from where they stood at the stairs leading up into it, she actually _looked_ . She had merely seen the _size_ of it before and not really regarded what was _inside_. And what she found in the first glance had her lifting a hand to cover her mouth in shock.

There was a battered old company banner hanging over the fireplace mantle between two bookshelves that were heavy with stock she couldn't read the titles of this far away. The desk that sat off to the side of the dark stones that surrounded the fireplace was starkly familiar though, enough that she knew there would be a sword scar across the surface and that one of the scuffed paw-shaped legs had been replaced by a heavy rough-cut piece of wood on the seating side. Moving forward as if pulled, Meryell ran her fingers along its sides, the grain of the old wood tugging at her skin, as she looked at what was _on_ the desk.

There was a little wooden box that she knew would contain one of Folke's non-medicinal teas, likely one of her favored flavors, without opening it as he always used the little boxes Mort carved. A tall wooden cup (likely also Mort given the full company arms was burned carefully into it) held what she was certain were the feather quills that Pod was constantly making for the Captain. In a small hand-made bowl of clay (probably Bel’s work) was a collection of rocks, crystal fragments, and the sparkle of tiny precious gems; the obvious work of Bort, Torrance, Myrtle, and the other current company youths who were always collecting such things. An old dagger held down a stack of clean parchment, blade chipped and slightly rusted with its wrappings fraying, made her nearly tear up because it was _Harvard’s_ belt knife.

Fighting a lump in her throat, she breathed, “This is the Captain’s desk. From his office at the keep. I've _hidden_ under this desk.”

“Yes,” noted Josephine with a nod and a smile. “He related that tale after I mentioned I wished to have a desk for you. Then he informed me that he'd see this one delivered because he'd see you with no other. And he needed a new desk anyway.”

Laughing, Meryell shook her head and turned away from the desk despite there being more on it. She would explore it further later to see what other treasures had been placed there. Instead she spun to put her back to it and began running her fingers over spines of the books lining the shelves, most of the titles familiar as ones that were old favorites in the keep. Then hers fingers stuttered because she _knew_ that spine, knew the scuff at the bottom, the burn mark along the top, knew that the pages were nearly coming detached from the inside.

It was _her_ copy of _Adventures of the Black Fox_. Not the one Varric had rescued from the Chantry. Not one purchased to give her a copy. No, this was _her copy_ . The one she'd snitched from a South Reach book shop at twelve while helping another member of the gang rob it. She had read it greedily so many times, curled up in her corner in the _hahren’s_ home or the gang’s miserable little hideout or her room at the keep.

She would know that book _blind_.

And it had been utterly _lost_ in Haven.

“ _How?_ ” breathed Meryell as she pulled the book out and cradled it against her chest like the precious thing it was.

Josephine just smiled and replied, “Commander Cullen began putting forth recovery efforts for those we lost in Haven since we're beginning to see the first thaw. One of the things he asked the volunteers to do was reach your cabin if it was feasible and recover what belongings of yours that they could.”

Oh _fuck_.

 _Fuck_.

She was _fucking crying_.

Turning away furiously to hide her face but certain the other woman had seen anyway - keen damned perception that she had and all - Meryell said, “And they did.”

“Inquisitor, it was the _first_ thing they did.”

For a moment she couldn't think, couldn't _speak_ , because them rescuing her books meant they had her chest. Which meant…

Whirling around, Meryell abruptly didn't care about the tears on her face and Josephine seeing them. She sought out the chest, which was sitting open at the end of the fur covered bed - a fur that looked _remarkably_ like the one Cullen had on his coat. That meant...where would he put them?

Only Folke would know about the most important objects in her chest.

“ _Where?_ ” she breathed aloud then her eyes fell on the empty armor stand that stood near the windows opposite the stairwell. Given that her actual armor was on the stand in her tent, there was nothing to actually put on the stand.

But someone had carefully hung an old leather satchel with a long strap around its ‘shoulders’ and then draped a heavy looking shawl of dark wool over the top of that.

She vaguely registered Josephine saying something but Meryell did not hear the words. Instead she crossed the room with one hand holding her book to her heart and the other stretched out so she could carefully curl her fingers into the old wool.

“ _Mamae_ ,” she whispered, stroking the back of her hand along the hanging half of the shawl. They hadn't been able to put her mother in it due to how the city had deemed the best course to get rid of the sickness. Instead the shawl had remained and when the goods of her parents’ home were taken for the rest of the alienage or coin to feed her, she had guarded it viciously.

Meryell then trailed her hand down to touch the old, supple leather of the satchel. It was a simple thing, just an open pouch with a bit of a flap for cover and a long strap to hang it over a shoulder, but _babae_ had never been without it. He'd been an apprentice to his Clan’s craftsman and had made it himself, one of his first works. That it had stayed with him through the ordeal with the templars was little more than a miracle as none of his clothes did. After that, he had worn it every day, even when he took up the trade again, helping one of the South Reach merchants from the back of his shop to craft minor leather pieces, and made so much better.

Out of everything she'd ever had, the three items she currently touched were what she had held onto with everything she had. Through the bullshit of the _hahren_ , the mild chaos of the gang, and all her years with the Fangs, these were her most precious things.

A soft hand touched her shoulder and Meryell turned, ducking her head as she realized it was Josephine. “Inquisitor,” the woman said gently, “are you well?”

Laughing a little, she replied, “I'm...damned if I know. Overwhelmed mostly. This is…”

“Much more than you expected?”

“It's bits of them,” Meryell explained. “That's part of _baba’s_ reasoning behind his charms. It's not only tracking, it's a way to take a little piece of the company - _of home_ \- with you when you're away.” Which proved the point that the company wasn't abandoning her, that even if their contract with the Inquisition ended she was still a Fang until _she_ chose to leave.

Josephine just smiled and carefully wrapped an arm around Meryell's shoulders, using her other hand to steer her back towards the center of the room. “Not _only_ bits of them,” she said as she settled them facing the end of the need. “Look up.”

She did as bid and choked on a sob, somehow turning it into a laugh. On the wall behind the little raised area built above the bed, someone had painted the keep. Obviously it wasn't Chuckles’ because it was a more common style of painting and there wasn't a Fang in the company who had that much skill. Whoever had gotten together to describe it to the painter, though, had done a bang-up job. The keep was in the foreground with its banners flying and she could see part of the stables and other areas that had been built on over the years behind the trees that took up the bulk of the bottom of the wall. Behind it, of course, rose the bulk of the Vimmarks and she let out a long breath as she stared at it.

“Josephine?” she breathed, reaching blindly back for the woman with her free hand as she still held _Adventures_ against her chest with the other.

Warm, slender fingers lacking callus and with only the wear of a quill tangled with hers and it sounded like Josephine was fighting tears as she replied, “Yes, Inquisitor?”

“I was _wrong_ ,” Meryell said with a smile.

“Not too much space?”

“Not too much space at all.”


	27. “A problem that the great Varric Tethras can't solve on his own? Oh this I have to hear.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric has a problem and apparently Cullen is just the person he needs to help him solve it. Well...sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the belated post. Once again a video game has stolen my soul: the latest expansion Legion is about to release for World of Warcraft.

Cullen sighed as he heard a knock on what he considered the main door of his office - the one that faced Skyhold proper - and called out a, “Enter!” that probably sounded more than a little irritated. He thought by now, a good four months since they'd taken occupation of the keep, his soldiers and scouts had gotten the fact that he didn't want to make himself hoarse yelling at all hours of the day.

Then he looked up as the door opened and realized  _ why _ the person on the other side had knocked.

“Varric,” he greeted, not certain he should be pleased to see the dwarf. Then he noticed the strained,  _ nervous _ expression on his least favorite author's face. “Is something wrong?”

“Ah, well…” The dwarf rocked on his feet for a moment before sighing heavily and saying, “I need your help, Curly.”

Cullen’s eyebrows went instantly up and he tapped the remnant ink off the end of his quill into his ink pot, capped it, then set the quill carefully aside. He then leaned back in his chair, one arm crossed over his chest as he gestured for the dwarf to go on with his other hand before folding it over the first. If  _ Varric _ needed  _ his _ help, then he was going to pay attention.

“ _ My _ help?” he repeated dubiously.

“Well, I may have gotten myself into a bit of a...problem.”

Chuckling, Cullen jibed, “A problem that the great Varric Tethras can't solve on his own? Oh this I have to hear.”

Varric groaned and lifted a broad hand to pinch the crooked bridge of his nose. “Maker’s balls, Curly,” he grumbled, “you're sassing me.”

“I have my moments,” he replied with a smile. Then Cullen became fully serious and said, “I  _ am _ listening, Varric. Do ignore my somewhat gleeful enjoyment of your plight.”

“Swears is good for you if this is what she brings out in you.”

He didn't make the comment he wanted to in response about it not having really anything to do with Meryell and merely Varric getting a glimpse at the person he'd been (at least amongst other templars) before Kinloch fell. Instead he just stared and waited for the dwarf to actually get on with what he'd come to get help with.

Varric grunted and closed the office door behind him, leaning against it as he said, “I need you to distract the Seeker in two hours, around sunset.”

“Why don't you have Meryell do it?” asked Cullen. Normally she was his partner in whatever small shenanigans he came up with as they'd become fast friends from the moment she'd been dragged off with Cassandra to first deal with the Breach.

“Because she'll be with me on the battlements.”

Cullen frowned and leaned forward, resting his armored elbows on the desk. “Varric,” he growled warningly, not liking where this was going.

“It's nothing dangerous, Curly!”

“ _ What is it? _ ” he growled.

Varric met his eyes for a moment before his gaze darted quickly away. Then all the air seemed to deflate out of the dwarf as he said quietly, “It’s Hawke.”

Now Cullen's eyebrows went up and he just stared for a long moment. Then he worked his jaw for a second before saying, “Hawke...is coming...here. Around sunset.  _ Today. _ ”

“ _ Is  _ here,” corrected Varric with a grimace.

“Maker's breath, do you have a death wish?”

“No,” he replied, sounding slightly annoyed. “Which is why I need you to distract Seeker.”

For a moment Cullen just sat there then he sighed, lifting a gloved hand to press a finger each against the inner corners of his eyes. He'd been having an actual  _ good _ day and now he got the feeling that the stress of just knowing Treva Hawke was in the same vicinity as Cassandra was going to set off a withdrawal fueled headache. Then he sighed heavily and asked, “Anders?”

He heard Varric jerk against the door and opened his eyes, frowning at the stunned look on the dwarf’s face. “What?”

“You don't know?” breathed Varric, his voice almost so low that Cullen didn't hear it across the room.

“Obviously not since I'm asking,” replied Cullen in a clipped tone. “I know Anders was living with her, it's the only thing that kept me from giving the order to bring him in. That and he was still doing some good in Darktown with his clinic.”  _ Before he destroyed the Chantry and kicked off this damned war that's been Ages in coming, _ he added to himself.

The dwarf just stood open mouthed for a moment before he ran both hands back over his hair, jostling some loose from the tie he kept a section in. “Shit, Curly,” he grumbled under his breath, “I thought you knew.” Varric then let out a long breath before throwing his hands up in the air as he said, “Hawke  _ killed _ Blondie, Curly. Stabbed him right in front of us.”

Cullen didn't realize he was on his feet until he registered that he was looking down at the dwarf instead of across. He planted his palms flat on his desk and was abruptly,  _ painfully _ hurt in sympathy for Hawke. Anders had been a crazed revolutionary (he'd gathered up a copy of the now infamous manifesto when raiding the Amell/Hawke Estate and read it himself) but he'd also once been a decent man. A mage he'd known in the Tower who'd been known to attempt to talk anyone into bed (including the templars), an escape artist, and a lover of  _ cats _ . Annoying but largely harmless. Who had been dead for  _ four years _ .

A mage -  _ man _ , not mage, he reminded himself, his own personal attempt to see them as people and not only their ability - who Hawke had loved.

By the Maker, if he didn't know now what it felt like to lo... _ care deeply _ for someone. The thought of having to  _ kill _ Meryell...he wasn't certain he could even stomach the idea.

“No,” he said, feeling more than a little breathless. “I didn't know that. I assumed...Maker, I assumed he left Kirkwall with her. Especially when I learned about the boy.”

Varric just shook his head and said, “You couldn't have known, Curly. As far as the mages, templars, and the Chantry are aware, Blondie is still somewhere out there. We didn't want them making him a martyr, so Hawke and Daisy made sure there wasn't anything to find.”

Cullen nodded slowly and noted, “A wise course of action.” He let out a long breath before saying, “Very well. Though, dare I ask,  _ why _ ask Hawke here?”

“We faced Corypheus before, Curly. Remember when we disappeared for a month or so before things went to absolute shit.”

Snorting, Cullen asked wryly, “Which time?”

“Right after Leandra died,” the dwarf replied mournfully.

Oh, did he remember when that had happened. Cullen had practically had to hold Carver Hawke down to keep the hot-headed young man from  _ running  _ out of the Gallows to hunt down whoever had taken his mother. Instead he'd sworn he'd see to it himself, put one of the older templars he trusted to watch the young man, and then he'd gone looking for Hawke. He'd offered her his aid for Carver’s sake as well as his tracking experience (reminding her that he was an accomplished mage hunter with a deliberately quirked eyebrow) and had been there for every step of the way onward.

He'd seen that  _ horror _ her mother had been made into, his stomach roiling at the foul magics at work, at the thought of his own mother (so many years dead then) being a victim of such magic. Had stilled his own final strike that would have taken that bastard’s head because  _ Hawke  _ needed it. And then, he had stood to the side with hands clasped over the hilt of his sword, saying a breathless prayer for Leandra Hawke (who had probably hated him for taking her son but also likely praised him just a little for not taking her obviously mage daughter away as well) while he listened to Hawke wail over her mother’s body.

He hadn't been witness to the conversation between the Hawke siblings after that as he'd simply told Carver that they had  _ tried _ and he was sorry. However, he had walked the younger man back and forth to the Estate from the Gallows, and had seen the red eyes as well as heard the muffled shouts of dismay and sorrow. After that, as well, the somewhat bitter relationship between the two siblings softened.

Being the last members of your line had that effect sometimes.

“No, I remember,” replied Cullen, not wanting to bring up bad memories for the dwarf. As much as he'd been affected by the woman's horrific death, Varric had known her for far longer. “I assumed that Hawke’s disappearance was simply taking time to deal with family matters. That was what Carver told me when he asked for a brief reprieve from duty after it happened.”

“That's  _ technically _ true,” Varric said.

“ _ Technically? _ Dealing with a darkspawn Magister is not  _ technically _ , Varric.”

“We'll tell you all about it, Curly, if you can keep your head on for a few hours. I'll fill you in on all of the gory details myself. The  _ real ones _ , I promise.”

“Maker's breath.” If Varric was promising him a truthful story without any over exaggeration, something serious was going on. Sighing, Cullen growled, “Fine. I'll be a distraction.  _ Briefly _ . After that, you get to tell Cassandra about bringing Hawke in. Especially since I assume she's going to be here for a while.”

Varric looked at little pale at his words but managed to just shrug and reply, “Fair enough, Curly. She's hoping for some space for a bit...and maybe a babysitter or two?”

Lifting his eyebrows, Cullen asked, “She brought the boy?” He had learned about Hawke’s son via other sources and, while he was wary of what the boy might eventually be with two powerhouses of mages as his parents, he trusted her to train him. Treva Hawke had never showed one sign of falling, even when he had expected it, and that had been what kept him from arresting her or saying anything about her being an apostate.

She was one of the best examples that the Chantry teachings on magic were sometimes wrong.

“Well she wasn't about to leave him behind.” Varric then pushed himself away from the door, saying, “I should get moving. Still have a few more things to get into place.”

Cullen just nodded then, as the dwarf was opening the door, he called out, “Varric?” As the other man stopped, he asked, “Does he know that she's here?”

“That's one of those things I need to put into place, Curly,” replied Varric with a pained looking smile. “Wish me luck.”

Snorting as the dwarf disappeared, he slowly sank back down into his seat. Shaking his head, he picked his quill back up then reached out to flip the hourglass on his desk, carefully watching it out of the corner of his eye to keep track of time as he went back to work.

“You’re dealing with  _ Hawke _ ,” he muttered to himself. “You're going to need more than the Maker’s own luck for that. We'll see how much you get.”


	28. “So Varric told me that you two, your brother, and your lover fought Coriphyshit the first time around.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell finally meets Treva Hawke and then basically gets her feet kicked out from under her emotionally in the conversation that follows. Good thing that Cullen is around to help Meryell stay standing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shockingly I'm not super tired after getting back in from spending the weekend at DragonCon (either because my roommate [CileraDragonfang](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CileraDragonfang) drove the last leg or the healing powers of a good shower), so you guys are getting Chapter 28 on time!

Treva Hawke was not like anything that Meryell had expected. Oh, she'd heard so many stories of exploits from Varric and had managed to pull a few tales out of Cullen involving his run-in’s with the apostate mage hiding in plain sight amongst the Kirkwall nobles.

She knew those things and that Hawke had fled Kirkwall after saving both mages and templars in the Gallows.

What she hadn't been related was how damned _tall_ the woman was, which made the almost flinty nature of her blue eyes even more forbidding. Though that particular thing was completely thrown off by her very nondescript leather armor covered by only a dark coat trimmed in gray fur against the cold, the distinct lack of a staff, and the four year-old boy with a mop of dark blond hair that she balanced carefully on her hip.

“You have a kid?” was immediately the first thing out of Meryell’s mouth.

Hawke snorted then laughed outright before she looked over at Varric where he'd taken a seat on a crate that had been left on the part of the battlements they occupied. “Everyone always makes that comment nowadays,” she said, sounding amused. Her voice was pleasant, if a little plain, and certainly not the _lyrical tones_ that Varric went on about in _Tale of the Champion._ “Not _oh what was it like to fight the Arishok_ or _was Commander Meredith really mad_ but _you have a kid_. I'm glad that my biggest achievement is now reproducing.”

“Well,” Varric drawled, “most of us didn't expect you to be the motherly type, Hawke.”

“Really I'm as shocked as everyone else is.” Hawke then extended her free hand - the shape the familiar heavy square that marked Ferelden blood as much as the profile of her once broken nose - and said, “Pleased to meet you, your Inquisitorialness. Treva Hawke, at your service, and this young man is my Mathis.”

“Hi,” murmured the boy around a nervous thumb tucked into his mouth and the other half of his face pressed to his mother’s breasts.

Meryell winced a little at Varric’s variation of her newest title before she reached out to take the offered hand. “Meryell Verlen. And just Meryell is _fine_ ,” she insisted. “I get enough _Herald_ and _Inquisitor_ nonsense from the rest of the lot around here.”

She then leaned forward to smile at the boy and said, “Please to meet you, little man. You know, there's a few littles running around here that you could play with if your _mamae_ agrees. I think they'd like a new playmate.”

“Didn't know _you_ were good with children, Swears,” commented Varric idly as Mathis perked up a little at her words.

“Big as the company is,” explained Meryell with a casual shrug, “female members sometimes end up with child or deliberately have one with their partners. So lots of times we get littles running around from them or folks drop them off on our doorstep or we straight up find them abandoned somewhere. Most of ‘em - minus the ones old enough to serve - are back at the keep with the skeleton crew that runs things when the whole company is out.” She then paused to grin before adding, “Everyone gets rounds of babysitting when they join up. Keeping track of the little Fangs is about as tough as a full training day.”

Hawke huffed a laugh at that. “From keeping up with this rambunctious little shit, I can only imagine,” she commented. “Speaking of...there anywhere we can talk up here that's not liable to freeze my nose off and has a door so I can put him down? It may be thawing downhill but this far up in the Frostbacks it's still cold as balls and I apparently didn't inherit the Ferelden cold resistance.”

Nodding, Meryell gestured towards the still abandoned corner tower behind the mage. “It's not got furniture but the doors work and the masonry’s intact.”

“I can work with that.”

Several minutes later they were sequestered inside the tower alongside several more crates as seating that Varric had found on the other side of the battlements from where they'd been standing. Meryell sat down on one and watched the boy as he made his way around the room while his mother loosened her coat. Now that she could fully see the leathers underneath, her eyebrows went up because she knew the maker's marks on it.

“Red Iron?”

Hawke blinked, pausing as she combed her fingers through the loose tail her long hair was tied into before she just nodded as she went back to what she'd been doing. “My uncle practically sold me and my little brother into service with them in order to get us into Kirkwall. We served a year with Meeran to pay for it and he kept templars off my back sometimes in return. Mostly when I paid one of the boys coin to do so when his back was turned. Kept doing it for a few years after we were out too.”

“Meeran was a shit kicker,” commented Meryell. She'd met the man a whole once when the Red Iron had taken on a job alongside the Fangs and she hadn't relished the experience. Skeevy old asshole had tried to move on her and she'd threatened to cut off his cock if he touched her one more time. And she'd nearly held up that threat, all skinny six and ten years of her and a quick knife, when he'd tried again.

No one in the Fangs had mourned years back when news came round that the Red Iron was under new reins after Meeran’s untimely death.

“Asshole is the word you're looking for,” noted Hawke as she settled onto her crate. Then she smiled and waved an errant hands towards Mathis, saying, “Don't curb your tongue for my sake, sweet. I've never held mine around him and we don't look to impress anyone anymore so he can repeat what he wants.”

Laughing, Varric said, “You may live to regret that, Hawke. There's a very good reason I call her _Swears_.”

“That bad?”

“Maybe we'll just let you be the judge,” replied Meryell with a smirk. Then she sobered and leaned forward to rest her elbows against her knees as she said, “So Varric told me that you two, your brother, and your lover fought Coriphyshit the first time around.”

Hawke’s expression darkened and she growled, “ _Killed_. Carver took his fucking head off after I set the bastard on fire. And that's not counting the frightening levels of damage that Anders did when Corypheus made him lose control over Justice.”

“Killed,” repeated Meryell, ignoring the mention of the possessed mage losing control for a moment. “Beheaded even.”

“Yes,” confirmed Hawke.

“ _Shit_.”

Running both hands back through her hair - and noting _again_ that she needed to cut it - Meryell looked at both of them seriously. “Tell me,” she said in a low voice. “Tell me everything.”

* * *

Hours later, Meryell looked up at the sound of steps on the ladder and met Cullen's surprised eyes as he crested the second floor in a sudden rush.

“Maker's breath,” he said as he hurried over to where she was sitting up against the headboard of his bed, knees drawn up to her chest. “We were worried about you. Hawke and Varric found me after your conversation with them and said you were going to the library. Then Dorian didn't know where you had gone and no one else had seen you.”

“I'm sorry,” she breathed, shaking her head. “I didn't mean to worry you or anyone else. I just...I needed to clear my head.”

“In my bed?”

Somehow she managed a smile as she asked, “Who'd dare look for me here but you? Maybe _baba_. And Leliana but that's because she'll stick her nose in anything.”

Cullen sighed and settled onto the edge of the bed so his hip rested against the tips of her toes. He leaned over to brace himself on one hand as he reached out with the other to cup her cheek as he softly asked, “Are you alright?”

Frowning, Meryell slowly shook her head and felt a lump of fear rise in her throat. “No,” she replied, her voice shaking, after a moment. “No, Cullen, I'm not alright at all.”

“What did they tell you?” he demanded, his voice somehow commanding while still gentle.

“Corypheus...they fought him.”

Cullen nodded, saying, “So Varric mentioned when he came to beg me to help in his _distract Cassandra_ nonsense.”

“They _killed him_ , Cullen,” she breathed. She could feel hysteria rising in her, that same fear that had nearly consumed her in the healer's tent if not for Cole and Gil. “Her brother cut off his head, she set him on fire, and Anders nearly _tore his arms off_ in a spirit-fueled rage. _What can come back from that, Cullen?_ What the _fuck_ are we facing because I can't fight something that can just _come back from the Maker damned dead_!”

His hand spasmed a little against her cheek and then he had his arms around and under her, lifting her up. As he settled her across his lap and pulled her against his chest, pressing his nose up against her cheek, he growled, “You are _not alone_ in this fight, Meryell Verlen.”

“It's  _me_ he wants!” she exclaimed, hearing her voice go shrill in her own ears. She was dancing on the knife edge of hysteria and wasn't sure she was going to come back down on the right side.

“So help me, _vhen-an-arah_ , if you think for one _instant_ ,” Cullen snarled back as his hands came up to frame her face, the leather of his gloves tugging at her skin, “that your _company_ , that the _Inquisition_ , or that your _father and I_ will let that _fucker_ take you from us, _you have lost your damned mind_ .”

She started shaking her head but he pressed on as he held her still, his grip firm.

“We will _find_ the answers,” he said firmly. “We will scour the whole of Thedas, overturn every rock, give Leliana free damned rein to every secret she can ferret out. We _survived_ Haven. We survived his first attempt to cause destruction.”

Then his voice cracked as he finished, “And by the Maker, I will face down that bastard _myself_ before I let him take you from me.”

“Cullen, _no_ ,” she gasped out, lifting her hands to frame his face in turn. Hers were so much smaller against his larger features but her touch had as much effect on him as his did on her. She stared into his eyes - brown or amber, she could never tell the true color as they shifted between the two and every variation in-between. Right now, in this moment, they were a dark brown, like a reflection of the seriousness of their conversation. “You can't…”

“I nearly lost you once,” he breathed after interrupting her with a sudden kiss that stole her breath. “If I lost you _now_ , after realizing that I…” He cut himself off and she felt his whole body shudder before he finished, “I don't think I could bear it, Meryell.”

“I can't lose _you_ either!” she exclaimed, shaking him a little. Breathing hard, she shifted to swing her legs around on his lap to straddle his thighs. He leaned back just enough to accommodate her movement then pulled her flush against him, though the metal of his breastplate was still between them. Meryell pressed a kiss against the scar on his lip, feeling his lips respond briefly, then bowed her head to rest her forehead against his chin. “I can't…I _can't_ , Cullen. I've never...no one has _ever_ been this to me before.”

“Nor I,” he murmured into her hair.

“No, no,” she said firmly, suddenly lifting her head. _Now_ was the moment to tell him. She'd lost her chance that night of drinking in the tavern and then had left Skyhold before she could have another. Here. _Now_. This was the moment. “I have _never_ had a _vhen'an'ara_. Not one man before you. They were...temporary. They wanted nothing of _me_ , just their cock in a warm body. I was either just a _fuck_ to them or a _knife-ear_ to take advantage of.”

His hands shifted, falling from her face as he hurriedly removed his gloves. When they returned, Cullen pressed his fingers over her lips and breathed, “Never again. Never say that word again.”

“Never,” she agreed, kissing his fingertips lightly. Then she closed her eyes and released a long breath before saying, “The heart’s desire.”

Cullen stilled then asked a little breathlessly, “What?”

Meryell replied softly, “That's what it means.” She opened her eyes to look up at him then and said it again. “The heart’s desire. _My_ heart’s desire.”

“Say it again.”

“What?”

“Say it in Elven,” repeated Cullen, his eyes locked with hers. “I want to get it right.”

Emotion welled in her heart and all of the fear, all of the anxiety of earlier was washed briefly away. He wanted to say it _right_ ** _._** He wanted... _oh_ _Maker’s cock_.

She repeated it, precise and evenly, several times and he copied her carefully. His more confident but still wary pronunciation shifted as they went through it until it was _perfect_.

“ _Vhen’an’ara_ ,” he finally managed, a delighted look in his eyes as the syllables flowed together as they were meant to. Then he kissed her, growling the word out again and again into her mouth, against her cheek, her jaw, wherever he could reach to press his lips against her face. As she bent her head back, giving him access to her neck, Cullen breathed, “I will not let him try to take you from me again. Never again.”

Now the fear came back despite the warm lips against her skin and Meryell asked, “How do you kill something that doesn't die?”

Cullen's hands were back on her face then, drawing her head back forward so he could meet her eye-to-eye. She blinked, long and slow, then let out a heavy breath at his next words.

“Everything dies, Meryell.”

“Even darkspawn Magisters?”

“ _Especially_ those.”

Barking a laugh, she leaned forward fully against him, laying her head on his right shoulder against the soft surface of his mantle. It wasn't terribly comfortable with his breastplate still between them but she didn't currently want to let him go long enough to remove it. Cullen tipped his head sideways to lean it against hers while his hands slid down her back before he cupped them around the curve of her ass.

“We will find the answers,” he said confidently after they sat like that for a long moment.

Letting out a breath, Meryell looked at his face next to hers and asked softly, “How do you know?”

“I have faith in the Inquisition.” He then lifted his head long enough to turn and kiss her forehead before returning to his previous position. “I have faith in _you_.”

She'd had trust before. The whole of the company trusted her to have their backs. Cassandra trusted her. But _faith_ ...faith was similar and so different from trust.

Especially coming from Cullen.

“I'll trust in your faith then,” Meryell said softly. “Because I'm not sure I have enough that we'll make it out of this shit show.”

He chuckled, saying, “I'll do my best to hold us both afloat then.” Then he murmured, “I should go tell them I found you.”

“Now?”

Cullen's hands tightened, sliding around to better grip her hips, and he shook his head.

“No, _vhen'an'ara_ ,” he replied softly. “Right now I'm here for you.”

“Thank you,” Meryell murmured before closing her eyes and just listening to the sound of his breath, feeling the shift of his shoulders underneath her cheek, and the distant pulse behind a layer of steel that was his heart beat. All three along with the exhaustion from stressing out over the matter of Corypheus’ seeming immortality conspired to drag her down into dreams moments later and she let it take her.

She was  _safe_.


	29. “Enlighten me. I know fuck and shit about Orlesian mages, let alone one who managed to finagle a title out of someone. What'd she do to earn it?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana digs up a missed invitation to a fancy party, Meryell talks future plans with the advisors, and then a secret Cullen has kept since joining up with the Inquisition gets rather explosively revealed by the action of a four-year-old.

“The fuck’s this?” asked Meryell as Leliana held out a rolled up piece of parchment towards her across the war table. She'd stolen enough documents (and helped forge a few) to know that the paper was  _ expensive _ and it wafted faintly of the sort of perfume rich ladies in Orlais tended to wallow in.

“An invitation that we sadly missed,” replied the spymaster as she folded her arms. “Apparently Madame de Fer has taken some interest in the Inquisition and attempted to invite the Herald of Andraste to her latest salon.”

Meryell snorted at the fancy words. “So, a party.”

“In short, yes, Inquis - Meryell,” Josephine said, correcting herself with a smile. “Though it might be worth our time to explore just what she can bring to the Inquisition. Another ally - particularly of such a powerful mage - could be indispensable.”

“I'll bite,” Meryell returned as she settled one hip atop one of war rooms tall stools. Gesturing at the ambassador and spymaster with one hand, she continued, “Enlighten me. I know fuck and shit about Orlesian mages, let alone one who managed to finagle a title out of someone. What'd she do to earn it?”

The two women on the other side of the table looked at her askance and Cullen laughed outright at their affronted expressions.

There was still laughter in his voice as he said, “The title is far from official to my knowledge. Even without it Enchanter Vivienne is one of the more formidable mages of this Age. She was the court enchanter to Empress Celene up until recently and was voted into power as the First Enchanter at Montsimmard at a young age. I remember the news being a scandal.”

“I did not think our stern Commander paid attention to gossip,” jibed Leliana, her tone light enough that Meryell could tell it was a joking jab and not a rude one.

Cullen just smiled as he rested his hands on the hilt of his sword. “The templars aren't that different from any other military and soldiers love gossip. We paid special attention when it was mages, even those not in our Circle.”

Leliana made a scoffing sort of noise that wasn't far from one of Cassandra's usual while Josephine smiled and added, “She is also, at the moment, the defacto leader of the loyalist mages.”

“Loyalist mages?” repeated Meryell.

“Those who did not revolt,” stated Cullen. “She has apparently rallied those who didn't take up arms or leave when the Circles fell. Given that the vast majority did go with the rebels they probably don't amount to much but…” He paused to let out a breath and lifted one hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Since we have already sought cooperation from the mages, we should explore efforts in allying with all factions of them that are seeking peace.”

Meryell's eyebrows went up at his words and she fought then failed to stop the brilliant smile she gave him. For anyone else to have said it would have been normal. To have  _ Cullen _ , who was still deeply uncomfortable with magic but was trying to quell his fear, do so was a completely different mabari.

“So,” she said slowly, “she'd bring mages and be good to have on our side for skills. And I'm gonna guess political savvy? You don't become court enchanter and earn even a fake title without some kind of skill at navigating the rat's nest.”

“Indeed,” agreed Josephine. “If there is in fact something in Corypheus’ plans involving the Empress as you saw in that foul future, as well, her insight would also be useful.”

Meryell held up a hand then and said, “Alright, alright, I'm sold. Send a letter expressing our interest or whatever and see what she says.” She paused, sighing, before adding, “I'll even take a trip back into Orlais to see her myself if that's what it takes to get her here.”

Leliana and Josephine looked at each other then over at Cullen, who just shrugged at their inquisitive looks.

“We will see it done, Meryell,” the spymaster said with a smile. “And perhaps you should visit her anyway. You were travelling next with Serah Hawke to Crestwood, yes?”

“In about a week to find this Warden friend of hers,” answered Meryell with a nod. She then leaned forward to prop herself up against the table with one hand and looked at the map where one of the simple pin markers had been pushed into the cloth. “I suppose we could do that then head north through the Storm Coast and take ship at Highever. It'll be a longer trip for us than Jader was but the horses will get a nice break.”

She then hummed to herself and added, “I can ask Zarru if she still knows any reliable ship captains who'd be around there this time of year. She's always kept her resources fresh for when the company needs a ship.”

“Pirate captains?” queried Josephine. Meryell could practically  _ feel _ the woman stressing out over what the Inquisitor on a pirate ship might do to their still recovering reputation.

“Mostly but she knows some merchants as well.” Winking at the ambassador, she jibed, “I'll be sure to tell her to stay away from pirates to keep you from having a heart attack, Josephine. Bets are off if that's all she can find though.”

The other woman sighed heavily before saying, “If it is the  _ only _ option to get you to Val Royeaux, so be it.”

“I'll go ahead and start planning to send some of our forces out towards Highever so they'll be in the city whenever you arrive there,” Cullen noted with a smile. “Perhaps Zarru will have a Fang or two who could travel with them who would know whatever ship she finds?”

Smiling at him, Meryell said, “I'll include that in my asking. Anything else?”

“We should begin discussing what needs to be done in the Storm Coast,” answered Cullen, tapping his fingers on the region below the small brass marker that signified the city of Highever. “There are several reports coming from our scouts there that are rather worrisome.”

Folding her arms, she asked, “What sort of reports, Cullen?” This was the first she was hearing if this but that was mostly because they had a rule now about no talk about work when they were alone. At least not at night anyway.

His eyes flashed up to meet hers and his mouth set into a grim line as he replied, “Red Templars.” There was a definite hint of a growl in his voice as he said the word and why not? They had betrayed his old Order utterly, had swung down upon Haven in a hammer-blow meant to wipe them out, and would have been partly responsible for her death if she hadn't gotten seriously fucking lucky. She imagined he had pity for them because he knew the price lyrium took from a body but not enough to resist striking them down. After Haven and Redcliffe, she didn't judge him for that at all either as she'd rather see them dead herself.

And he definitely probably did not like that she would be the one by-and-large going out after them.

“Our scouts have not been attacked by them, correct?” asked Josephine as she lowered her board to look at the map.

Shaking his head, he answered, “No but…” Cullen trailed off and turned to pick up one of the rolled up pieces of parchment on the end of the table, planting a heavy unused marker on one end before he unrolled it and weighed down the end with another. Meryell leaned forward to see what it was and found the beginnings of a map of the Storm Coast, very much like the ones kept by their scouts in the Hinterlands and Fallow Mire. This one was, of course, not as filled out as the others but there were two Inquisition camps marked with the eye that she could see.

“This is what they've explored so far,” he explained as he gestured over the drawing. “I'm told that there are more scouts in the field up towards this left side who haven't yet reported back with their findings. However, the worry is here, along the shore.” As he gave the map a heavy tap in two different locations, Cullen growled, “We have definite reports of Red Templars  _ and _ red lyrium. They seem to be mostly staying to the areas they've claimed, however, so it possible they're working on increasing their forces before they do anything major.”

Meryell looked down at the map then up at him and asked, “Does this need to come before Val Royeaux?”

“My dislike of them would have me say  _ yes _ ,” replied Cullen. He then heaved a sigh and looked at Leliana over Josephine’s head, the spymaster shaking her own head subtly in response to an obviously silent question. “As of now, however, we still have too little information for us to make an official call.”

“We are hoping,” Leliana said, “to get an impression of their numbers before we send anyone in against them.”

Josephine nodded and added, “Thankfully, much of the region is still unoccupied since the Blight. Highever has been slow to recover these ten years despite Teyrn Fergus’ best efforts and I do not believe West Hill has fared any better. So there is little to worry about in the way of loss except with our own forces.”

Nodding, Meryell stared at the map for a long moment before she looked up to catch the eyes of Cullen and Leliana. “Find the answers,” she said firmly, “but let's not sacrifice anyone for this. Not unless there is absolutely no other fucking option.” She trusted that Cullen wouldn't needlessly sacrifice a soldier but Leliana...well, it wouldn't surprise her if the  _ el’u’verelan _ was willing to do such.

“As you will,” intoned Cullen seriously as he lifted his fist to press it over his heart. Leliana nodded firmly in turn and Meryell took it as the agreement it was.

“Anything else then?” she asked.

Josephine looked down at the papers on her board and replied, “I believe that is all for today, Meryell. Tomorrow will be our long day of planning for your trip to Crestwood.”

“Make sure Hawke’s here then,” commented Meryell as she tucked her arm into Cullen’s as he came around the table with his elbow extended. “Not only to plan for Crestwood but her son since he's remaining here.”

“I was under the impression that our Master Tethras would be taking care of him,” commented Leliana.

“You're half right,” answered Cullen and all three of them turned to look at him. Meryell arched her eyebrows in a silent  _ you know something we don't know _ and he just grinned down at her. “Trust me,” he said, “it's taken care of.”

Meryell flashed a look back at the two women, who looked just as confused as she did, before Cullen pressed her forward out of the war room. As they passed through Josephine’s office into the hall she asked, “Fine. How are you so knowledgeable of our new guest’s doings?”

He laughed and replied, “You think I don't have my own sources to what goes on in Skyhold?”

“Oh I  _ know _ you do,” she replied. “I've been in your office when one of your soldiers has come in with those sheets of juicy gossip from the barracks. But  _ who _ do you have to tell you about Hawke?”

“It's a secret.”

“ _ Cullen _ ,” she whined playfully. “I know how to keep a secret!”

“Not my secret to tell,  _ vhen'an'ara _ .”

Sighing heavily as they passed out the open doors of the hall and started down the steps, Meryell said, “Fine.”

He arched his eyebrows in surprise. “That's it?”

“It's  _ you _ ,  _ vhen'an'ara _ ,” pointed out Meryell with a smile. “The only other person that can match your level of stubborn is Cassandra, so I have no hope of working it out of you.”

Cullen snorted and replied, “I think you underestimate the levels of persuasion you could reach with me.”

“ _ Oh? _ ” she asked, stopping him at the bottom of the stairs. Turning to face him, she slid her hands up over his breastplate and mantle to lock her fingers around the back of his neck. As his hands fell to an almost chaste position on her waist - not too high and not too low - she smiled up at him. “Are you admitting, ser, that I have an unfair advantage and can weasel Inquisition secrets out of you?”

“Unfair advantage, yes,” he replied with a smile. “And you are our Inquisitor; Inquisition secrets  _ are _ your secrets, so why would I hide those from you?”

“So  _ not _ an Inquisition secret. From before?”

Cullen just smiled and was silent, which had Meryell stepping closer to him so she was pressed against his breastplate. It wasn't like she'd molded herself to him but...well...it didn't leave much to the imagination since her shirt choice of the day was rather low cut. And he  _ looked _ , which made her feel considerably better about that fact that she had little to offer in the way of breasts.

“Shall I seduce you here in the courtyard to find the answer?” she purred.

He growled in response and she felt his fingers flex against her sides. “I would prefer,” he rumbled darkly, “you to do so in private if you insist upon the attempt.”

“Afraid someone will get jealous of you being with the Inquisitor?”

“No,” he replied succinctly. “I would simply prefer to have all of that part of you to myself. It may surprise you but I don't like to share.”

As Meryell flushed in response to that, there was a shout from somewhere behind her in the general direction of the door that led through to the garden and a child's exuberant giggle. Cullen let out one of those bray’s of laughter of his and she turned to see little Mathis Hawke sprinting his way across the upper courtyard with one of the Sisters who'd taken to working in the garden at his heels. The four-year-old was  _ covered _ from head to toe in dirt and mud with what looked like the remnants of an elfroot plant tangled in his hair and had the brightest, most mischievous grin on his face.

“Come back here this instant!” scolded the Sister, who was  _ also _ covered in mud all down the front of her robes. There were also muddy child sized handprints on her cheeks and a messy smear that looked like it might have been caused by a mud-coated kiss.

Tiny legs merely pumped faster in response to the shout as the boy sped towards the tavern. He never made it there, though, as a fully armored templar came out of seemingly nowhere and swept the boy up in one swift move to toss over his shoulder. Meryell blinked as she recognized him as the one from outside the mage's tower before her trip to the Fallow Mire. Ser Cutter had been what Dem had called him, she thought.

“Oh, Ser Cutter, thank you!” exclaimed the Sister. “This little  _ menace… _ ”

“Has done what now?” interrupted the templar as he rested a heavy hand on top of the squirming boy on his shoulder.

Meryell couldn't see the Sister’s face from their vantage point by the stairs but judging by how violently red the back of her neck turned, she was one step away from a full-on apoplectic fucking rage.

“He has  _ ruined _ a section of the garden! Dug up all of the elfroot there! He dug  _ holes _ ! Turned it into a mud puddle!”

“Is a  _ pond! _ ” defended the culprit in a tone that said she'd insulted him to the core and Meryell laughed along with Cullen as Ser Cutter swatted Mathis lightly on the rear with his other hand. “But,  _ Un’ca _ , the p’ants needed water! They have water at home!”

“ _ Un’ca _ ?” repeated Meryell, turning to look up at Cullen with a confused expression. “Is he...is he trying to say  _ Uncle _ ?” Judging by the immediate  _ desolate _ look on the man's face, the boy was. “Maker's holy ball sack, Cullen,” she breathed in a hushed whisper. “Does Cassandra know that  _ Carver bloody Hawke _ has been serving in the Inquisition under an assumed name?”

“We had managed to keep it a secret up until now,” he replied through slightly clenched teeth. Then Cullen sighed and shook himself. “No helping it now. The mabari was probably out of the pen anyway on that one from the moment Hawke set foot in Skyhold.”

“She's going to  _ murder _ you.”

“I more fear Leliana murdering me than Cassandra,” he grumbled in reply.

“ _ Ooh _ ,” squealed Meryell delightfully. “I would love to be there when she finds out that  _ you _ pulled a fast one over on her too.”

Cullen just sighed wearily. “You  _ would _ find some delight in this, wouldn’t you?”

“I like annoying the  _ el’u’verelan _ , what can I say?”

He snorted and then they both turned to look as they heard an exasperated noise of frustration from the Sister before watching her storm off. Meryell saw Ser Cutter - or Ser  _ Carver _ , as she now knew his real name to be - heave a sigh and tilt his head back towards the sky in a gesture that was very likely him asking for strength. Then he started walking towards them with Mathis still over his shoulder, though the boy was now merely kicking his heels idly and not attempting to escape.

“Commander, Inquisitor,” greeted the man as he stopped in front of them. Meryell looked at him again now that she knew he was the younger of the surviving Hawke’s and could see some of the family resemblance. They were dissimilar enough that unless one knew they were related, it couldn’t be seen. Carver had a completely different facial structure - his was the more sturdy seeming Ferelden while Treva looked more of a Marcher as a whole - but it looked like they shared the same nose (though his hadn’t been broken), blue eyes, and brown hair. “Sorry you had to witness the antics of this scamp.”

“Not a scamp!” chirped Mathis, pushing himself up against his uncle’s back so he could see them. “Hi, Mer-ree!” he said brightly upon seeing her, reminding her that he had trouble with his ‘l’ sounds and she’d made a point to stare at Varric while giving the boy permission to call her Merry. “Hi, Cu’en!”

“Hello, Mathis,” replied Cullen in a gentle tone that was normally reserved for her or a recruit having a hard time. He then turned to Carver and said, “I believe our secret may be out soon.”

The other man flicked his eyes to Meryell and she grinned while nodding, which just made him sigh.

“Well,” Carver noted a little grimly, “we knew me coming with you had that risk but like I told you in Kirkwall, I sure as shit wasn’t staying behind. Plus with Treva coming here it was bound to come out. The scamp here doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body.”

“Nope!” chirped the boy. Then Mathis frowned and asked, “Un’ca, what’s su...sut...sut-el?”

Patting the boy lightly on the back, Carver replied, “Nothing you need to worry your tow-headed little self about. What  _ you _ need to be worrying about, scamp, is how your mother is going to react to you tearing up the Inquisitor’s garden.”

Meryell just shrugged because she didn’t really care as torn up earth could be fixed easily enough but the templar shook his head at her. She realized a moment later that this was to be a lesson in something and smiled at him, moving her hand up and over her lips in a gesture of locking them with a key. Carver just grinned at her in response.

“Anyway,” he said lightly, “I need to get this menace cleaned up then go hand him off for punishment. We still training the new lot in shieldwork this afternoon, Commander?”

“Provided you get free of Hawke when she finds out you weren’t watching the boy,” jibed Cullen with a smile. Carver huffed in mock offense as he made to move around them, Mathis falling back down against his shoulder, as he made his way towards the stairs underneath the arch that led down into the lower courtyard.

“I’m not the one who was responsible for him this morning. Until afternoon, Commander. And a pleasure to finally meet you, Inquisitor.”

“I have a name, Ser!” she called after him.

“As do I!” he called back and Meryell laughed, shaking her head before turning her attention back to Cullen.

“I like him.”

Snorting, Cullen replied, “You’re lucky to meet him now and not when he joined up. Maker, was that an experience I don’t want to relive again.”

“Well,” she drawled, “I hope none of your new recruits remind you of such things.”

“Only if they have obviously apostate sister’s who are drawing attention to themselves under my commanding officer’s nose. Though…” He paused and smiled down at her before finishing, “I seem to recall my current commanding officer doesn’t have a problem with mages.”

Meryell laughed a little uncomfortably at the reminder that that  _ was _ what she technically was before saying, “Sounds like you’re a far luckier man now than you were when dealing with a younger him.” That comment brought a bright smile to the man’s face - the sort that twisted his scar and made him seem younger - and she couldn’t help but smile in return.

Cullen moved one hand up to cup her jaw as he softly said, “A lucky man, indeed.” Her breath caught just a little at the tone and reminded herself that they were standing in the middle of Skyhold.

Instead she asked, “I’ll see you at dinner tonight?”

“I may need a reminder of the time but, yes, dinner tonight.”

Chuckling, Meryell said, “I’ll be sure to grab a runner to come remind you. Or just come get you myself.”

“I’d prefer the latter,” he replied as he started to step away and head to wherever he needed to be next since the days were ever busy for the Inquisition’s Commander. “You have a far prettier face.”

“I’ll remember to tell your runners that you appreciate me more than them!” called Meryell after him, which just made the man turn and grin at her.

“I think that is evident to everyone in Skyhold,  _ vhen’an’ara _ ,” Cullen replied. Then he was gone, disappearing down the same way that Carver had just went and Meryell stood at the base of the stairs for a long moment with what was probably the most  _ ridiculous _ smile on her face.

Sometimes she still doubted that anyone could want her but comments like  _ that _ ...oh, comments like that soothed every single ruffled feather.

Still smiling, she turned and headed off on her own way because she too had her own things to do. And possibly some chaos to try to rush over and watch later when Ser Cutter’s real identity finally made it through the rounds of the Inquisition grapevine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, Carver Hawke!


	30. “Get down to the lower camps, take my horse if Dennet won't loan you anything else. Find Captain Arnald and Folke and tell them I need their presence in the upper courtyard immediately. Got that?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit goes sideways when Cullen hears was seems like a stray comment at first but turns out to be aimed towards Meryell. What escalates from there is a situation far beyond anything he expected from one of the Fangs...especially towards their Meryell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this chapter has some mild hints at past emotional abuse.

“Hey, Yeller, wanna celebrate making it out of Haven? For old times sake?”

Cullen frowned, turning away from observing his lieutenants working recruits in the training yard, as he heard the shout from Skyhold’s upper courtyard. He didn't register it's target until a moment later when Meryell snapped back at the man.

“I'd rather suck bronto  _ dick _ , Camden! And you're almost five fucking months  _ late _ to celebrate anything involving Haven,  _ masvian _ !”

“Oh  _ come on _ , Yeller. We had fun didn't we? Certainly seemed like you were when you were riding my cock years back.”

As his ears burned because they were having this conversation  _ in front of the whole Inquisition,  _ Cullen angrily ignored the few pitying looks being directed towards him. Did they suddenly think that just because she'd been with another man years ago meant that whatever they had was squandered? Or that Meryell was going to just up and  _ give in _ ?

He didn't particularly care who was in her past nor did he think she cared about his. The most important people to each of them right now was each other.

“ _ Years?! _ ” he heard Meryell snarl then. “Try a  _ decade _ , Camden. I wouldn't touch your cock now with a fucking polearm. Then again I might not be able to find that miserable excuse of a thing even if I  _ tried  _ to cut it off with my _ belt knife _ .”

“You think you can talk to me like that just because you're suddenly some  _ big shot _ ? Just ‘cause you got a worthless title? Or ‘cause you're fucking the Commander? I remember you when you was  _ nothing _ , Yeller. Just some scared, angry little shit of a knife-ear that Folke brought back for us to play with.”

Now  _ that _ was more than enough.

Turning to his closest runner, Cullen growled, “Get down to the lower camps, take  _ my horse _ if Dennet won't loan you anything else. Find Captain Arnald and Folke and tell them I need their presence in the upper courtyard  _ immediately.  _ Got that?”

“Ser!” replied the runner, snapping off a sharp salute as he took off running towards the stable. Cullen didn't pay the young man any mind after that, as he was already jogging up the stairs from the lower yard, jaw set hard in preparation for what he would find. As he peaked the top of the stairs, he found Sera leaning against the wall underneath the arch of the keep's main stairs.

The little elf blew a raspberry at him before asking, “Come to rescue your lady love, jackboot?”

“Come to do  _ something _ ,” he growled in response, not even slowing as he continued on past her. He stepped out into the upper courtyard from under the stairs and narrowed his eyes at the utter spectacle that it had become since the shouting had started. Anyone who’d been in the yard had fled to the outer parts of it, away from the two figures standing directly in front of the armory. From the tavern and the upper floors of the armory and parts of the keep, however, windows had been thrown wide and were crammed with curious faces.

The Iron Bull stood with his over-sized mug in hand by the door of the tavern, Krem and another Charger he didn’t recognize (an elf with what looked like a bow on her back), just seemingly watching the show. One glance around, however, revealed that there were the familiar faces of several Chargers that he  _ did _ recognize amongst the crowd, as well as a few Fangs now that he actually looked. Cullen couldn’t help but silently applaud the Bull’s good sense at that move because he’d surely ordered his men into the crowd given that a few of the faces he knew were spaced evenly apart.

Cassandra was also present but she was practically in the middle of the action herself. She was standing not all that far away from Meryell and Camden, a short enough distance that she could easily run him through with the naked sword in her hand. Furious didn’t quite describe the expression on her face and Cullen was certain that his own probably echoed hers. He pitied their training dummies later.

He flicked his eyes over Meryell to assess her state other than  _ pissed off _ and found the answer to be  _ fine _ . As he started to turn his attention to the man that she was snarling something to that he couldn’t hear, a voice drawled from behind and above him, “Well, well...look what the Twins dragged in.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes skyward, he grumbled, “Hello, Hawke. Come to watch the show?”

“Actually the show came to me. I was just sitting here with the kid before everything got entertaining when that blowhard there starting shoving his boot down his throat.”

He turned to look at her at that and found Hawke sitting on the lower tier of the stairs, one leg hanging over the side while she had the other up where she could prop an elbow on it. Varric was seated next to her on the stairs and he seemed to have taken over entertaining Mathis as the boy was draped over the dwarf’s broad shoulders to look at what he was writing on a board propped against his thigh.

Oh Maker only knew what new ideas this was giving the dwarf.

“So,” Hawke drawled with a smile, “I hear tell that you’re moving up in the world, Curly.”

“How is that?” asked Cullen distractedly as he turned his attention back towards the center of the yard. Camden was saying something now, his voice low enough that it didn’t carry over the sound of the crowd. Part of him wanted to step in and break this up now before it turned into even more of a circus than it already was but another wanted to give Folke and Arnald enough time to make it up from the camp to witness what was going on.

“Varric tells me you’re fucking the Inquisitor.”

Instantly his whole neck heated up with embarrassment and as he started to open his mouth to protest that, Sera said from next to him, “Oh, they ain’t fucking yet. Maybe playing ‘round beneath the sheets but Cully’s still to wound up to have gotten some.”

He just clenched his jaw because  _ how could they be having with conversation when that bastard had just called Meryell that slur.  _ He then heard Hawke belt out one of those raucous laughs of hers before saying, “Oh, sweet, I think I like you.” Instead of focusing on them, he started to press forward into the crowd and dimly registered that the two women were following him by a sharp  _ Cully Wully, where ya going _ and the sound of Hawke’s boots hitting the ground as she huffed out  _ Fuck all, Curly. _

The pair squared off in the center of the yard were still snarling at each other, Meryell spitting something out that he couldn’t hear clearly over the murmurings of the crowd around him. He noted that her eyes were narrowed into hard slits and her ears were twitching in time with the angry shaking of her clenched fists at her side. Cullen then turned his eyes to the man himself again, who was sneering down at the elf in a way that made a prickle of fear flare up his spine.

It was so similar to the way some of the templars under Meredith had looked at the mages. Looks he’d once ignored for a variety of reasons over the years in Kirkwall.

As his stomach wrenched sickly, he mechanically noted that Camden was broad-shouldered but he was a wiry sort of man with only the vaguest hint of musculature. Definitely not one that regularly held sword and shield or had spent the last eleven years wearing heavy plate like Cullen had. A second-line fighting sort like Meryell then, at least, the sort that struck from either behind the heavy lines or in the cover of shadow. He was also taller than Meryell by about the same average as Cullen was with wiry brown hair that looked like it was starting to go sparse early around the crown.

For some reason he had the brief, ridiculous thought of  _ I could take him _ when Camden abruptly spat loudly, “Looks like your new toy came to  _ save you _ , princess.” It took a moment to realize that  _ he _ was the toy in that sentence and Cullen immediately fixed the other man with a hard stare as his hand reflexively closed around the hilt of his sword. He started to take a step forward and push forward through the last of the crowd that separated him from the open circle when he felt hands latch onto each of his arms.

“Ya think Quiz can’t put a shithead like that in his place, Cully?” questioned Sera from his right.

At the same time, Hawke gripped his left bracer tight and hissed, “Let  _ her _ handle this, Curly.”

Out of the two of them he chose to turn and glare at Hawke, initially judging the woman’s abrupt jump when he did to be in reaction to how he looked as a reminder to the early days of Kirkwall. Instead her next words floored him.

“Andraste’s knicker weasels,” Hawke breathed, “you  _ love her _ .”

Flinching back like he’d been shocked, Cullen started to hiss, “I…”

“ _ Curly _ ,” hissed Hawke. “No man looks  _ that furious _ unless it's his sister, mother, or the woman he loves in trouble. And I'm pretty damned sure she isn't either of the first two.”

Pressing his lips shut, he just stared down at Hawke in silent reply. She was right, he loved her. He'd as good as admitted it several times without using the actual word. Had almost  _ feared _ using it.

There had been that moment during his talk with Arnald when he’d thought about that he loved her but wasn’t entirely certain it was the romantic sort, the kind that lasted forever, that he was certain his parents had had before the Blight had taken their lives. Being directly confronted with it made him look at it again, however. Made him think of how she made him feel, of how he had been certain he wouldn’t have been whole without her. How the thought of losing her, accidentally or through his own actions, had made him almost physically ill.

Oh Maker,  _ he loved her _ .

“Then why should I let her handle this alone?” he finally growled when he found his voice again.

Hawke just smirked back up at him in reply.

“Because a wise man knows when to pick the right battles to fight for his lady,” she said with a wise air that the apostate hadn't had the last time they'd actually had a normal conversation. Then she smirked as she looked over his shoulder and added, “And I think she's more than equipped to handle that jackass.”

As if her comment summoned the heavy sound of a body hitting the hard-packed dirt of the upper courtyard that was followed by a short shriek of pain, Cullen turned back around. Camden was now face down on the ground, his right arm wrenched backwards at a painful angle while his left was pinned under Meryell's knee. She crouched on the man's back with her other knee pressed against the small of his back right up against his spine. Her teeth were bared as she bent low to bear all of her weight down on that spot. He took another step forward, Hawke and Sera’s hands falling away from his arm, as he realized from the angered looks on the faces of the crowd that  _ she _ hadn't been the one to instigate whatever he'd missed in that instant.

“You don’t fucking  _ touch me _ ,” she snarled, her voice carrying through the air despite her speaking at a normal volume thanks to the silence that had fallen across the crowd. “And I don’t need  _ saving _ from fuckwhat by  _ nobody _ .”

Camden grunted into the ground in response and replied in a pained voice, “Didn’t look like that when your new toy carried you in from that pisser of a fight at Haven. Though you’re right, Yeller. You never wanted  _ saving _ and you always did fine fucking things up on your own. Bet old Vard went down cursing your name from the shit you brought down on us.”

Meryell’s face went white at that and she jerked upright so her weight was no longer centered on the man’s back but instead was now focused more towards his hips. That gave him more leverage to move and Camden used it to twist his upper body up and around, throwing her off of him. He started to lunge after her where she sat stunned on the ground but Cullen was quicker than him or even Cassandra, who had started to move forward as well.

In three long steps, he crossed the space between the edge of the crowd and where they were. He drew his sword at the start of the second and had it fully extended by the time he planted his feet in front of Meryell at the end of the third. His sharp “ _ Hold! _ ” snapped through the air as luckily (or unluckily depending upon how one looked at it) Camden had the capability to stop himself from being skewered on the point of his sword, though the tip of the blade did dig into his shoulder right at the joint enough to bring blood welling to the surface.

“You  _ will  _ hold,” growled Cullen, glaring down at the man. It had been bad enough when Camden had called her that damnable slur. To lay Harvard’s death and the twenty six other members of the Fangs who had died at Haven at her feet, as if she had summoned Corypheus herself to do the deed...that was  _ unforgivable _ . Particularly from someone who was supposed to be a part of that family. And, not to mention, the secondary thing that had driven him forward.

_ He had attacked the Inquisitor. _

This was no longer Cullen stepping in to protect the woman he loved.

This was the  _ Inquisition’s Commander _ stepping in to protect  _ the Inquisitor. _

“You going to protect her, pretty boy?” sneered Camden as he pulled back with a little grunt, slapping a hand over the wound in his shoulder as the tip of the blade slid free. He jerked his chin past Cullen where Meryell must be, though he didn’t dare turn his head to follow the motion. One of the main rules of combat he’d been taught was never take eyes off your opponent, whether they be templar or mage, and he wasn’t about to start changing that now. “She ain’t worth it. Just another knife-eared  _ slut _ who thinks they’re better than us shamlen.”

His blood boiled at the fresh insult and if he didn’t have as much control over himself as he did, Cullen would have run him through then and there. This  _ prick _ wasn’t worthy of a quick end, though.

“Gustav!” he barked instead, dragging his eyes away from Camden just long enough to register that there were two Inquisition soldiers in close range. “Morgan!” The two men obeyed his unspoken order without even a pause, stepping forward to grab the crouching man’s shoulders. Camden immediately sneered and tipped his chin up before letting out a harsh laugh.

“I’m not  _ Inquisition _ ,” he sneered. “You can’t do  _ shit _ to me.”

Cullen scowled at that and leaned down to say firmly, “I’m not certain where you came under that impression but the Fangs of Vimmark were  _ hired _ by the Inquisition. You are officially working for coin on the paperwork, which I know full well managed to make it out of Haven in the hands of Lady Josephine. And, as the Inquisition’s Commander, it is fully within my rights to keep order within any holding of the Inquisition  _ as I see fit. _ ”

“Load of fucking  _ crock _ !”

As soon as the last word was out of the other man’s mouth, Cullen heard two sets of boots finish pounding up the last of the stairs and Folke’s voice bellowed out, “ _ Fangs, stand down!  _ Captain’s on the field!” Instantly, every member of the company that he could see scattered throughout the crowd dropped to a knee as Arnald stopped in a wide-legged stance at the top of the stairs. The Captain was breathing hard, his chest heaving underneath the battered training leathers he wore, a sure sign that he’d been dragged away from some sort of practice maneuvers down in their encampment. Folke had obviously recovered faster or had taken the run better but he seemed far closer to teetering off the edge given that the sleeves of his coat and shirt sleeves underneath were both rolled up to the elbow to make way for the flames that engulfed his hands to the wrist.

Cullen took a step back then, trusting that Gustav and Morgan had Camden under control, and lifted his sword as he spun in a slow circle around the area. “All of you!” he shouted, absently taking in the fact that Cassandra had gotten Meryell to her feet and ushered her off to the side near the stairs, where Sera and Hawke had set themselves down as a living wall of steely-eyed fury between them and everyone else. “Clear the courtyard! Get back to your stations and lives, this matter is under control.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Bull give a sharp gesture and the Chargers amongst the crowd melted away with them as they began to slowly disperse. A respectful move, he knew, from one leader of a mercenary company to another, now that Arnald was on the field to have his men at hand. The big Qunari lifted his tankard in a salute toward Cullen and he returned the gesture with a sharp nod of his head as Bull retreated into the tavern before pointing his sword at the bright faces crammed in the tavern windows.

“And I want those windows  _ shut _ !”

Shutters instantly snapped closed in response to his shout and Cullen turned back to face Arnald with a scowl.

“Captain,” he growled.

“Commander,” replied the older man sternly. Nothing in his face was of the man Cullen had met in every other instance. There was no easy amusement here, no turn into amicable conversation or quiet drinks in a tent. No,  _ this _ was the iron-handed Captain of the Fangs of Vimmark that Leliana had found information on. “Are you arresting my man?”

Cullen brought his sword down to hang even with his leg, unthreatening but ready if need be, and replied, “Were it only his words at fault, Captain, I would give him over to the law of the company.  _ However _ , he physically assaulted the Inquisitor and attempted to do it a second time after knocking her prone.”

Arnald’s eyebrows went up very briefly in mild surprise behind his mask but the expression was there and gone in an instant. He turned his head to look at Camden - still under the combined grip of Cullen’s men, though he’d now shifted to a knee himself - then shifted around to look at Meryell, who still looked pale and more than a little jittery. The man’s eyes narrowed and he asked, “What exactly happened?”

“I wasn’t here for the whole of it,” replied Cullen honestly, biting his tongue on every foul thing he wanted to say about Camden’s words. He then tipped his head in a half circle towards some of the kneeling Fangs before saying, “Some of your men, Seeker Cassandra, or Hawke could give you a better impression of things than I. At least for the first part of the incident.”

“Seeker Cassandra then.”

“ _ What? _ ” exploded Camden, causing both of them to turn and stare hard at him for the interruption. The man started to try to rise but Gustav and Morgan held tight to him, forcing him back down hard enough that he grunted in pain. “She’s Inquisition, Captain! She licks the ground that  _ bitch _ walks on! You really think she’s going to give you a fair answer?”

“I think,  _ boy _ ,” Arnald replied in a clipped, hard tone that carried as much cold in it as the avalanche that had swallowed Haven, “that you should actually heed good sense and shut that fucking hole in your face before it gets you into more trouble.”

Camden’s eyes bulged in response as he shouted, “You can’t listen to ‘em, Captain! They’re gonna  _ lie _ ... _ furrrrk! _ ” He was cut off abruptly as Folke took a set of shuffling steps forward, his teeth bared in an expression that Cullen could only compare to a death’s head smile, and kicked the younger man squarely in the crotch. As Camden slowly sagged with a groan as the only thing keeping him upright now were the two soldiers holding him up, the hedge mage took a step back to aim another kick at him.

“Folke!” barked Arnald. “ _ Enough! _ ”

“Captain,” growled the mage but the older man cut him off with a dark glare. Folke huffed out an annoyed breath and took a pair of long steps away from Camden in response instead, but didn’t turn his attention away from him. And the flames licking around his hands hungrily didn’t dissipate one inch.

The hum of magic itched in the back of Cullen’s mind but he focused past it, calling out Cassandra’s name before things could go anymore off the rails than they already were. She jerked her head around towards him, her dark eyes narrowed and fierce with a protectiveness he didn’t think he’d ever seen from her. As he tilted his head to indicate she join them, she said something softly to Meryell, who replied in kind, before looping her arm protectively around the elf’s waist. They stepped forward together and Sera and Hawke fell into step behind them as if they belonged there.

“Commander,” greeted Cassandra as they stopped in front of them, planting herself directly on a line between Meryell and Camden, “Captain. How may I aid you?”

Arnald frowned and gestured briefly in a vague manner with his hands as he replied, “You can aid myself and the Commander in filling us in on exactly what went on before either of us arrived on the field. As a Seeker of Truth, your word is perhaps the most trusted here.”

The dark-haired woman turning a burning gaze towards Camden, who was still slumped over in pain, silently reminding them of the man’s statements - particularly the one he'd made about her only a moment ago. “I don’t control what my men say, Seeker,” Arnald began. “Fully admit to being aware that my man there is an asshole...but he’s the  _ company’s _ asshole.” The Captain narrowed his eyes behind his mask as he finished, “So I’d like to know what he said as to know when he crossed the line.”

Cassandra blinked slowly in return before giving a slight bob of her head. Cullen let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding then and shifted half of his attention to Meryell. She was just standing there silently, her head bowed so the long locks her hair had grown into fell over her face, hiding her expression from him. He could read her body language though, the folded arms, sloped shoulders, bowed head, and the way her hip was  _ locked _ against Cassandra's said everything that she didn't. 

Cullen wanted nothing more in than moment than to pick her up and take her away from all of this nonsense. Or, even better, to turn back time and step in before Camden had made that damnable comment that had hit her so hard. He couldn't though, not now, not when Camden had laid hands on her and had the intent to do Maker only knew what.

Even if he'd never known an inkling of caring for her, he would not have let someone handling the Inquisitor like that stand.

Cassandra slowly laid out the scene that preceded what he had heard from the lower yard. She and Meryell had been merely walking across the yard, discussing a new novel that Cassandra  _ blushed _ at the mention of (he wasn't certain he wanted to know what that was about). They had been doing nothing but minding their own business when Camden, sitting amongst a group of Fangs in front of the armory, had shouted out that first sentence at Meryell. Cassandra quoted it in a clipped, angry tone then relayed Meryell's reaction.

Shock. Disgust. Anger.

She went on that she herself hadn't realized what Camden’s initial comment had been eluding to until Meryell had shouted back at him. The shouting had attracted the crowd, including the Bull and his Chargers and any Fangs in the keep, but she hadn't drawn her sword until Camden’s last comment before Cullen had started up the stairs. Cassandra had apparently drawn her blade as soon as the man's first words were out but Meryell had given her a signal to stand down, that she had it under control. And she had trusted that and stepped back.

“That,” finished the warrior, “is when the Commander arrived on the field.”

Arnald nodded slightly in acknowledgment, his expression like stone, and flicked his fingers in a little  _ go on _ gesture. Cassandra turned to look at him but Cullen just shrugged.

“I couldn't hear what was said after they stopped shouting,” he explained and frowned when Cassandra's expression turned somehow darker.

“Perhaps that was for the best at the time,” she intoned sternly as she squeezed Meryell's waist lightly. “Shall I say?” asked Cassandra, her voice gentling as she turned her head towards the younger woman.

Meryell shook her head in response, finally lifting it a moment later. The guilt in her eyes hammered into Cullen with the force of the Bull’s war maul and knocked the air out of his chest just as neatly as that beast of a weapon had once. In all of their talks, he'd never come to the impression that  _ she  _ actually might blame herself a little for the deaths of those they'd lost in Haven.

Suddenly he regretted his sword not digging deeper into the man's shoulder.

“No,” Meryell replied firmly. She straightened up then and looked at the back of Folke’s head as she said, “He made the comment about me being some fucking big shot and I promptly reminded him that we hadn’t had anything in ten years, so me suddenly getting a shitpiss of a title hadn’t been what prompted me refusing his cock. Then he made the bright comment that he should have done a better job at  _ taming me _ when he had the chance. If he had, maybe I wouldn’t be such a fucking bitch and would actually give him what he was due.”

There was a long silence in response to that then Folke twisted his heel viciously into the dirt while the presence of his magic grew heavy and thick on the air, Sera reached for a bow and arrow that weren’t at her side with a scowl, Hawke made an angry hissing noise while glaring at Camden, and Arnald stood still as stone in silence in a way that was terrifying.

Cullen stared at Camden for a long moment after that before sheathing his sword lest he do something well and truly foolish with it. Though taking Camden’s head seemed more and more like a prospect that  _ everyone _ could agree on.

After a moment the Captain cleared his throat and asked in a low voice, “The first attack, girl?”

“Deflected,” replied Meryell flatly.

“But he reached first.”

Cassandra nodded sharply and answered, “He made an attempt to grab her with the comment  _ Perhaps I can teach you your place now. _ ”

“Let me shoot ‘em full of arrows, Quiz!” piped Sera, her voice as vicious and wild as the gleam in her eyes. “It’s the least this shithead deserves!”

Meryell just shook her head in response and the younger elf spat a curse, stomping in a circle before she stormed back towards the stairs to sit down with an angry huff of breath. Cullen eyed her for a moment before he said, “Meryell.” When she just barely shifted her head towards him, her eyes still focused on Folke, he intoned seriously, “This isn’t a company matter. It  _ can’t _ just disappear. Too many saw him reach for you and you put him down. They heard his words and saw him throw you then try to get at you again before I stepped in.”

“Assault on the Inquisitor,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. When he just nodded, she bowed her head again and asked, “As my advisor, what is your recommendation, Commander?”

_ Commander. Advisor. _

Not  _ Cullen _ .

It was a reminder that this was not a decision to make as the man who cared for her but as the man who advised her and kept what were now her forces at strength. He was learning how to make that step in the war room after his talk with Arnald, learning how to be one person there and another elsewhere. And vengeance for wrongs done to her as Inquisitor, he reminded himself, were the solely hers to mete out by her hands and order alone.

Gripping the hilt of his sword, Cullen inclined his head slightly and replied, “I would advise, Inquisitor, that he be taken into custody and held. Let him cool his heels in the cells over the course of your trip to Crestwood and make a decision upon his fate when you return from Val Royeaux.” He then turned his attention to Arnald, who was nodding in agreement, and added, “And I would ask if the Captain of his company would strip him of his commission.”

Meryell started to open her mouth but Arnald beat her to it, saying quickly, “ _ Done _ , Commander. You are correct that this is far beyond anything we could handle within the bounds of the company and I won’t have the Inquisition thinking that we’d attack one of our own. I’ll have his badge before we return to camp.”

“Captain,” breathed Meryell, her ears drooping slightly in a way that Cullen had never seen before. “I’m sor…”

The older man whipped his hand up, palm extended towards her in a gesture of  _ stop _ , and as her voice trailed off, he said, “I won’t hear it, my girl, not one word of that. You protected him  _ enough _ a decade ago when he deserved to get what he got for his deeds against you.” He then snapped into a  _ Ferelden _ salute, one hand clasped over his heart, and bowed just slightly towards her. “The Fangs of Vimmark  _ serve _ the Inquisition and will do so until we or it deems that our contract is done. You understand me, girl?”

There were tears in Meryell’s eyes and Cullen’s hands twitched as he resisted the urge to reach out and take her from Cassandra into his arms and wipe those tears away. Even if they were ones at being touched by Arnald’s gesture.

“Yes, Captain,” she replied softly.

Arnald nodded sharply then and turned on a heel, the gesture as sharp as it had probably been when he was still in the Imperial Army. They then watched him stride over to stand next to Folke, resting a hand on the hedge mage’s shoulder as they looked down at the slowly recovering Camden.

“ _ Captain _ ,” groaned the man between bared teeth, his voice still reedy and thin from the swift attack on his most sensitive area. “They’re  _ lyin’ _ . Whatever they was saying, she wanted it. Little knife-ear wanted every  _ inch _ .”

Cullen tensed and he felt more than saw Cassandra do the same right before Folke and Hawke’s magic collided against his fragmented senses in a clash that made him see stars - though much of that was from the sudden influx of sensation given that the apostate was so much more powerful than the hedge mage. As soon as that cleared, he realized that the Captain had shouted, “ _ Enough! _ ” as the last bits of the sound managed to reach his ears.

“I have handled every report made against you, son, so don’t give me that shite of a story that you’re the  _ victim _ here. You were lucky before in that most of them were forgiven by those that brought them forward and the rest were settled in the fighting ring.  _ This is different. _ ”

“Captain, you can’t,” began Camden, only to be cut off as the older Orlesian stepped forward and leaned down so he was nose-to-nose with the younger man, who couldn’t lean back at all as Gustav and Morgan held him firmly in place.

“ _ What is the first rule of the company? _ ”

Arnald’s voice snapped across the upper courtyard, sharp as a banner caught in high winds, and then in the silence that followed all that could be heard was Camden’s abruptly ragged sounding breaths. When no answer came from the man, someone from the company (it sounded like Astrid) practically howled, “ _ Fangs! _ ” An instant later every man and woman of the company who was there, including Meryell and Folke, shouted with one staggering voice.

“ _ This is the Captain and his word is law! _ ”

It was rather terrifying in that moment to witness what every single members of the Fangs had admitted was a severely disorganized company come together in such singular unison.

Cullen merely settled back to watch as Arnald straightened and gave a sharp nod to the gathered before he said sharply in a ringing tone, “Camden Bowfort, you are hereby stripped of your commission in the Fangs of Vimmark. Any claim you had to us and any we had to you is now null and void.” He then squeezed Folke’s shoulder and said, “Remind me, old friend, what this lad’s charm is.”

The presence of Folke’s magic stuttered and slipped out from underneath Hawke’s more blindingly bright presence as the flames around his hands finally dissipated. A wide grin split the mage’s face as he replied, “I believe, Captain, that this  _ i’tel’gon’lan _ had me make his out of his belt buckle. May I do the honors?”

Arnald merely gestured for him to go ahead and as Folke crouched, Camden laughed hoarsely before saying loudly, “Why don’t you just kill me, Folke? You know what I did to her back then. And you’ve been bedding the high and mighty bitch, Evune. You know what all elf’s are good for.” He then leaned forward as much as he was allowed and hissed, “She’s a  _ rabbit _ no matter how many times you call her your daughter, old man.”

Cullen saw the move coming a league away as Folke’s shoulders bunched and twisted, swinging his right fist up into a sharp punch that  _ shattered _ Camden’s nose in a truly glorious shower of blood. There was a small cheer from the gathered Fangs and he saw Hawke grinning despite carefully touching her own nose, once painfully broken so badly it had never healed right, in sympathy.

“ _ Nuva mar’edhis banafelas i miol’en av ra _ ,” spat the hedge mage in Elven as he roughly kept Camden’s suddenly lolling head upright with one hand so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood and tugged at his belt with the other. As soon as the leather strap was free, he stood and said to Gustav, “Do make sure he doesn’t die. I really do want to see the son of a bitch get what’s coming to him.”

The swarthy skinned solder just nodded sharply as he took Folke’s position in steadying the man and Morgan grinned as he replied, “We’ll see he stays alive, ser. Wouldn’t be fair if he got away with insulting the Inquisitor like that.”

“Good lads!” chirped Folke with a grin before he turned away, holding up the belt by the buckle for all of the gathered to see. “Fangs! What do we do with those who betray us?”

“ _ Pitch ‘em to the Void! _ ” came the shouted reply and Cullen glanced over at Meryell to see her smiling just a little bit as she joined in with the yelling. Her expression brightened even further when her father took the buckle in both hands and it sparked with magic before the light guttered and died.

“So ends the career of Camden Bowfort,” intoned the mage as he rolled the belt up and tucked it away, presumably to get rid of it later. Arnald nodded then turned in a slow circle, regarding all of the gathered before he took a deep breath.

“Fangs!” he said loudly. “I want everyone down in camp - and I mean  _ everyone _ \- and we are going to have a discussion about this sort of shit never happening amongst our own ever again. You have until a glass before sunset to be in camp and you had better make sure everyone you’ve ever fucked, kissed, or bled alongside is there with you. We have an understanding?”

“Aye, Captain!”

“ _ Dismissed! _ ”

As the Fangs rose to move out, Cullen flashed a hand signal at Gustav and Morgan - one of the ones meant for before battles where talking wasn’t the best course of action. The pair nodded in unison and hefted Camden up, hauling his limp arms over their shoulders. He could hear Morgan start up a running commentary as they walked off - mostly about how much of a  _ dumb shit _ the man was for going after the Commander’s lass - while Gustav attempted to keep Camden’s head upright between snorts of laughter. And noted that as they carried the man off, his pants didn’t hold up the battle to stay around his waist without the belt and immediately fell to his ankles. Suddenly Cullen realized why Folke had wanted to do the unbelting honors.

When the upper courtyard cleared of the last man, Arnald turned to point at both Meryell and Folke as he said, “You two aren’t required for this meeting. I don’t expect to see you, don’t  _ want  _ to see you, and expect you both to respect that.”

“Arnald,” murmured Meryell, stepping away from Cassandra for the first time since the warrior had helped her to her feet. When the Captain held up hand, she stopped, and he gently reached out to turn her in Cullen’s direction while murmuring something in her ear that only she could hear. With a small smile, she turned to look at the older man and asked, “Is that an order?”

“Aye, whelp, we’ll call it an order,” replied the man warmly before giving her a light shove. He moved towards Folke as she stepped forward cautiously and Cullen held out his hands towards her. Meryell’s hands slid into his slowly, her fingers shaking minutely against his own, and he was extra cautious as he pulled her towards him.

It suddenly felt like dealing with a half-wild animal, ready to bolt at too swift a movement.

Bowing his head, Cullen asked softly, “Do you want to go to your place?” Not was she okay because he knew she wasn’t. And he knew that going somewhere where no one else could possibly find them would likely be what would make her feel best after what had just happened.

When her mouth tilted up at the corners into a smile, he’d knew he’d said the right thing.

“Yes,  _ vhen’an’ara _ ,” she replied quietly. “You, me, and  _ baba _ . No one else.”

Cullen just nodded and lifted her hands in his to press a soft kiss against her fingertips as he murmured, “As the thief wishes. You go to Folke and go ahead. I’ll finish up here and bring along the alcohol.”

Her smile shifted from wary into a bright flash that nearly blinded him with the abrupt intensity and she arched up onto her toes in order to kiss his cheek. Then she was moving towards Folke, who had been watching them quietly alone since Arnald had disappeared without a trace, and took his hand to drag him away. Cullen watched until they disappeared down the stairs to the lower courtyard then turned to regard those that were still standing there with him.

“Thank you,” he said firmly to Cassandra and Hawke. The former merely shook her head and he knew her answer without her saying it. She needed no thanks for defending someone who was a friend but Cullen gave it anyway.

The latter snorted a laugh and flapped a hand errantly at him as she said, “After all the shit you saved me from over the years, Curly, I owe you more than one or two favors.” She then swept up the stairs with a parting, “Don’t get into trouble, kids,” as she scooped up her son from Varric’s shoulders. The dwarf just sat there for a minute after she was gone, smiling and winking at Cullen, before he picked up his work and followed with a parting  _ Later, Seeker, Curly, Buttercup _ .

Maker save him from whatever Varric had been jotting down that entire time.

Shaking that thought from his mind, Cullen clasped wrists with Cassandra as she moved past him, heading back towards her customary spot at the upper yard’s training dummies. Then he looked at Sera, still sitting sulking on the steps, and smiled. She glared at him for a moment before bounding up onto her feet.

“So that’s it, Cully?” she exploded. “No arrows, no taking that shitpiss out of his hide?”

Sighing, he replied, “That’s not how it works, Sera. Not in the Inquisition.”

“You lot are fucking mental,” spat Sera, throwing up her hands in disbelief. “Oh, this one insulted me, let’s just lock him up to let him  _ think about it _ . Shitheads like that don’t  _ change _ , Cully!”

“I don’t expect him to.”

“Then let me fill ‘im with arrows! That’ll teach a lesson!”

Cullen just arched an eyebrow as he asked, “That we kill someone outright instead of punishing them properly for the crime they’ve done?” Sera just blinked then a slow smile came over her face, setting her to bouncing on the balls of her feet and pointing at him.

“Oh!  _ Oh! _ ” she squealed. “You’ve got a plan in that planny head of yours. Someplace good to send that shithead. Right, right?”

“I have ideas,” he replied honestly, “but the final decision lies with Meryell. And if she lets him go, Sera, we have to honor her decision.” When she wrinkled her nose, he added, “Even if we think it’s a bad decision.”

Shaking her head, the little elf said, “Bonkers all, you lot.  _ Whatever _ . I’m going to go see if Beardy wants a drink. Least  _ he _ makes sense.” As she stormed off, looping around him to head down the stairs towards the stable where Blackwall was usually working, she called back, “Go see your lady lo~ove, Cully Wully! I bet she needs some of that sword of yours right now.”

Knowing she wasn’t talking about his actual sword, Cullen sighed and headed for the tavern to buy a number of bottles off of Flissa as he’d said he would before heading down to join Meryell and Folke. “With her  _ father _ there?” he muttered to himself as he crossed the yard before opening the door. “No, thank you, Sera.”

Not moments later he was back out with six bottles in a basket as well as some sort of cheese, meat, and small crackers that Flissa had insisted on throwing in. And with not one coin having been spent out of his own purse as every man and woman in the tavern had been clamoring to buy the bottles for him as soon as they learned where he was taking them. He’d been so stunned by the gesture that he hadn’t even argued, not even when Bull had grinned and tossed a coin across the room from his seat via several of his Chargers before Krem slapped it onto the bar.

Cullen allowed himself a smile as he hefted the weight of the basket on his way down the stairs before sobering abruptly. There might be celebrating in the tavern...but he got the feeling that where he was heading wasn’t going to be half as cheerful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven/Elvhen Translations:**  
>  I'tel'gon'lan - worthless person
> 
> Nuva mar’edhis banafelas i miol’en av ra - may your dick rot and the insects eat it
> 
> * * *
> 
> Just to note, Camden is not much older than Meryell. I haven't figured out his exact age but I know he's either younger than Cullen or the same age. That puts him at being 19 at most when they were together since Cullen is only four years older.
> 
> And, yes, he is as much of an asshole as I could make him (and some of these aren't even the worst things I had him say in the first two drafts of this chapter).


	31. “You've said nothing wrong, vhen'an'ara.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell deals with the aftermath of the confrontation with Camden and finally tells Cullen exactly how she feels about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for my roommate who helps make this story better (she keeps me from doing stupid stuff sometimes), [CileraDragonfang](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CileraDragonfang), and [Noir_Ship](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Noir_Ship). For reasons. Mildly NSFW reasons. *wink wink*
> 
> NSFW starts towards the end, in the last quarter of the chapter.

_“...seemed like you were when you were riding my cock…”_

_“...remember you when you was nothing…”_

_“...should’a done a better job of taming you years back…”_

_“...teach you your place…”_

_“...never wanted saving…”_

_“...old Vard went down cursing your name…”_

Despite everything she tried, the things Camden had said kept echoing like thunderclaps through her skull, the rumblings of them shaking right down to blood and bone. He had said things that had angered her, that had made her blood hot for a fight or a fuck, the same way that he always had. That was how they’d started their little dance when she was five and ten, fresh to the company with youthful rage carrying her along in its wake. He’d insulted her, she’d snapped off, and somehow that had led to furious kissing and ripping off clothes in one of the keep’s storage rooms.

She hadn’t been intending on playing his game even a little bit (and certainly not to the finish he wanted), not at first. _Brush it off and move on_ was the tactic she’d used with him since their relationship had fallen apart. Then he’d mentioned her riding his cock and she’d just _snapped_. Anger and old broken fear had welled up, suddenly as fresh as it had been back then, and she let the rage carry her again.

And then, when she’d had him pinned down, furious at his _gall_ to try and touch her (to grab her arm in that possessive way he still had, like he _owned her_ because she’d given her body _once upon a time_ ), he’d clawed open a wound she’d only barely sewn shut. Harvard’s death and those of the other twenty-six members of the company - HonorAlenaKirykBastianNickelPeterDorotheaClaraMarsailBryanTarotAlkesOdwenReynyMareyJausaVerrinLianoBedlamThagaGeiriGilasMinaBryneRiffolkTempest - she remembers them all in a rush that tastes like sorrow and death. She remembers the name of every member of the company that has died around her, but Meryell has these carved on her heart because it feels like _her_ _fault_ that they’re no longer there. It's not, she knows that, but the mind doesn't necessarily follow logic all of the time.

Even with her father’s hand in hers and blessed solitude ahead with only _him_ and _Cullen_ and the knowledge that Camden is well and truly _fucked_ , these things still choke her throat. Still threaten to tear her apart because she is far more fragile than she seems and the only people that really, _really_ seem to notice it are the two men she cares for most.

“ _Ara vherain_ ,” Folke said from behind her, dragging her attention briefly away from her storm swirl of thoughts. “Where are we going?”

“ _Ma eth an_ ,” she replied as she pulled him further and further downward into the bowels of the keep.

“Safe place?” he echoed and Meryell could _feel_ the frown. “Do you not feel safe in the keep? In camp?”

Nodding her head, she answered, “ _Vin, baba._ It isn’t like that.” Throwing a glance over her shoulder, she saw the pinched, tight look at his face that showed how worried he was. “It’s just a place that’s safe from being found when I want privacy without the risk of being disturbed. I don’t fear anywhere in Skyhold.”

Given his silence, she wasn't entirely sure he believed her.

They finally reached the bottom and the last turn to the left that led to her hidden cavern and she wants nothing more than to bury herself into the cushions until Cullen arrived with the alcohol. Then she will drink herself silly until the faint tremors of old fear no longer make her hands shake from time to time and she doesn’t remember the memory of rough hands pawing at her hips as she attempted to twist away. She didn’t know if they’d let her though, if they will let her just re-bury the memories and the reasons in the grave she put them in so long ago and cover it up with fresh dirt.

If she’s honest, what she really wants is to be alone with Cullen, to kiss him and touch his skin and taste him until she fully embeds _him_ over the memory of everyone else in her past. That won’t happen tonight, though, nor will it likely happen in the two days she has left before they leave for Crestwood.

Meryell just stood there instead, staring at the pile of cushions and _wanting_ , until her father dragged her down into them. As soon as they were horizontal, she felt the storm rise up into her throat, threatening to burst out of her and rage out of control. She curled her fingers into the edge of Folke’s coat and pulled herself in close to him, as tight as she could press without lying on top of him. He wrapped his arms around her in return, cradling the back of her head with one hand, and then he _broke her_.

“ _Ir abelas, asha’lan_ ,” he breathed, his voice cracking slightly. “I should have paid more attention back then.”

The storm welled, grew in power, and then it burst free of its fragile confines.

Its leading edge picked her up, like a ship in the full gale of the hurricane Zarru described once, and flung her headlong into the tangle of emotions she'd been fighting for so long that day. Meryell gasped and on the exhale came the first sob; the sort of sob that tore the air from the lungs, that felt like it was tearing the body apart from the inside out. She clung to Folke like he was a port in the storm, as if only the press of his arms around her and the faint stubble on his unshaven cheeks against her forehead could shelter her from being washed out to sea.

Ten years was a long time to keep emotions buried.

At some point she must have fallen unconscious because when she became aware again, it was to longer limbs tangled around hers, curls tickling her lips, and warm breath against her collarbone. Meryell slowly opened her eyes and realized she was laying on her opposite side now, her body half lying on top of Cullen's. Their legs were hopelessly tangled and she was higher up his body than she preferred, so his face rested against her throat instead of their normal position of her head tucked under his chin. It doesn't seem like it would be comfortable for him but he was utterly limp and warm against her so it must be.

She shifted just slightly, trying to turn and look for Folke, but then the arm around her waist tightened to pin her in place. Meryell leaned back enough that she could see Cullen peering at her with one bleary eye before he grumbled, “Morning.”

“Is it?” she asked, turning her head to look out the opening of the cavern. She absently noted that there was a slight crick in her neck while looking to see that the sky isn't even lightening outside. If it is morning, it is still very early as she can usually at least see the sun dappling the treetops and the distant mountains.

“Close enough.”

Cullen then ran his other hand slowly up her side before he cupped her face with it. “You went to sleep without even getting a drop of the alcohol. I didn't have to pay for one bottle.”

Blinking, she just replied, “Oh?”

“The Iron Bull and everyone else in the tavern refused to let me as soon as they knew I was coming to you.”

“Oh. _Ir abelas_. I didn't mean to…”

He was shaking his head then, as much as he could with her pressing the back of his skull into the cushions anyway, and interrupted her with a stern, “You don't have to apologize for _anything_ , _vhen'an'ara_. Not after today.”

Meryell quirked her lips and (not wanting to think about _that_ so soon after waking) corrected, “Yesterday.”

“Yesterday then,” he replied with a little huff of a laugh. Then he cautiously - _delicately_ \- brushed his thumb across the edge of her lip and asked softly, “May I kiss you?”

A little confused that he would ask, she replied, “You don't have to fucking _ask_ , Cullen.”

Cullen just shook his head. “Yes, I do. After yesterday, I do.” Her heart stuttered a little at his words and what they mean, only finding herself able to nod in response. Then he was lifting her up just enough to move her down so their bodies were more in line and he could better reach her mouth, his lips closing over hers with what she could only describe as _reverence_.

It was soft and gentle and sweet and Meryell melted against him in the wake of it. For a moment there was only the press of his mouth against hers with the lingering taste of whiskey (did he and Folke drink?) flavoring it and the distant sensation of his hands gripping her hips. When they finally separated, she propped herself up with one elbow braced against his shoulders and the other arm curled around his face, lacing her fingers into what she could reach of his persistently curling hair. He hummed contentedly in response and smiled up at her, all honesty and a little shyness.

“Why’d you say you _had_ to ask?” she questioned softly, unable to stop herself from pondering over that phrase. Instantly his expression stuttered and she frowned. “Cullen?”

Shaking his head, he started, “Because,” then immediately stopped, obviously taking a moment to gather his thoughts. When he began again, it was instead a soft spoken question.

“Will you talk about it?”

Part of her wanted to brush it off and reply _talk about what_ but she wouldn't do that to him. She hadn't been in a relationship of this sort before but she knew she didn't lie to Folke or anyone else that she was really close to in the company. Cullen deserved the same as they did; no, he deserved _more_.

He obviously thought her slow response meant he'd said something he shouldn't have because his face turned panicked. As he reached up to touch her face again, saying her name, Meryell turned to press a long kiss into his overly warm palm. “You've said nothing wrong, _vhen'an'ara_ ,” she breathed as she brushed her nose across the dips between his fingers, calluses catching at her skin.

“I worried…” He paused, frowning as he turned his face away, the lines of his jaw suddenly tight. “I thought,” Cullen said slowly, “after I asked that it might have been like...like Kinloch was for me. That he…”

“ _No_ ,” she insisted firmly, moving her left arm so she could press the fingers of one hand against his mouth. When he stopped talking, Meryell moved her hand and leaned down to kiss his scar, wondering once again where he'd earned it. “If it had been _anything_ like I assume you went through there,” she breathed, “Camden wouldn't be alive today. Arnald would have let the company kill him for doing harm to a child.”

Cullen's chest sagged underneath her and she realized with horror that he'd thought the worst had happened to her. Kissing him again, she said, “It was words, only words, really. There was once when he tried to force me but he let me go when I said no. _He let me go._ Camden may be an asshole but he's not a _bastard_.”

“I might disagree with that assessment after what he said to you,” growled Cullen in return. Then he gently took her face in both of his hands and kissed her, breathing out, “And I know words can hurt just as much as anything, Meryell. You don't...you don't have to hide from me.”

Looking down at him, Meryell immediately balked at saying it. She'd told the man lying half beneath her many things but _this_...she'd held on to this for a long time. Most who'd even been in the company at the time hadn't even known what had happened, just that Meryell had been hurt and Camden had been the cause. With her being only five and ten, that had been enough reason to beat the shit out of him while she'd been sitting with the Captain as he coaxed it out of her. He and Folke knew, since Folke had been her recruiter and kept an eye on her as per rule of the company. Thankfully she and Folke hadn’t been so close then or else Camden may have been dead long ago and buried in a ditch.

Licking her lips, she began slowly, “It ended...oh, five months after it began. We started with words and fighting with each other and we ended it with about the same.” Cullen arched his eyebrows slightly but she shook her head at him and continued on. “Our relationship was never the sort of thing to build anything on, to never become something beyond fucking in corners and hissed dirty talk. I wanted it to be, though, wanted it to be more than it was. Shit, the girl I was _thought_ it was more than it was and she was a fool.”

“I’m sure she wasn’t a fool,” he murmured, idly tracing patterns with the pads of his fingers across her collarbone.

Meryell shook her head. “In this, she was.”

“I…” She stuttered on the words she’d said back then, her heart abruptly hammering in her chest. Not out of fear or an echoing memory...but because they were words she wanted to say to the man beneath her. That she _meant_ with everything in her but feared because what if it happened again? What if she gave away _everything_ and came up wanting again?

Calling him _vhen’an’ara_ was practically saying it in and of itself she knew but _those words_...they were Important, with a capital. She remembered her parents saying them above her head when she was little and curled up between them, their cheeks pressed together and ears touching. Folke had said them to her and did it frequently, whispering them along with one of his names for her against her cheek or forehead with a kiss every time as if the words were only for her.

Saying the words _meant something._

“Meryell?”

Cullen’s voice, worried and confused, broke through her scattered thoughts and as her eyes refocused on his face, she said the first thing her whirling mind gave her in a bare whisper.

“I love you.”

He stilled underneath her, his entire body suddenly tensing up, and his shaking hands suddenly finding her face. Cullen started to open his mouth then he paused with a frown, brushing his thumbs carefully across her cheeks. For a moment he just stared at her, amber eyes assessing her as attentively as he did his troops, then Cullen stretched up to kiss her as he breathed, “Come back, _vhen’an’ara_. You aren’t here with me.”

And, just like that, she was.

Shaking, Meryell pressed one hand flat against his chest, pushing aside his tunic so she could reach skin as if to cement herself to the now purely by contact. Then she spoke in a rush, “I told him that and he laughed. Said if I loved him then I should let him claim me, let him lay his mark on me. I thought...I thought he just meant _sex_ because I’d heard such things with the gang. I thought it would just be different when we were together after saying that.”

Turning her head, she pointed to the spot on her right ear, where unblemished skin gave way to an old faded pair of curved scars. Folke had done the healing on it himself, refusing to let anyone else do the work because she was his responsibility. She’d balked at the scars back then as they were a reminder but accepted when he explained that it was the best even a more powerful healer could have done with the damage.

“He bit me,” she whispered. “While he had his cock in me and driving hard to completion, he suddenly had my ear in his teeth and he _bit me_. It bled like a son of a bitch and I fought him while he did it, kicking and screaming at him Elven. Half the reason it’s so bad is because I pulled away. It’s why I don’t like them to be touched.”

“He,” began Cullen only to stop, his voice trembling. Then she felt a finger touch her cheek, just underneath the lobe of her ear, and he breathed, “May I?”

Meryell froze then slowly forced herself to relax as she nodded, murmuring, “I trust you.”

He inhaled a shaky breath at that and she closed her eyes, holding herself still as his fingers slowly, _carefully_ moved up over her ear. The touch was featherlight, barely revealing the roughness of his hands, and brushed up over the top of her ear like a ghost. He stroked the skin around the scars then shifted his hand to curl around the back of her neck, gentle pressure pulling her down closer to him.

When his lips touched the scar in a light kiss, Meryell let out a little hiccuping sob as her heart swelled with love with the man beneath her. Turning her head suddenly within his grasp, she caught his mouth with her own as she shifted her position, moving from lying on her side against him to straddling him. His hands fell almost automatically back to her hips, fingertips digging in as he hummed into her kiss and his hips gave a slight thrust up into hers.

Pressed chest to chest like that with the taste of him still on her breath, Meryell cupped Cullen’s face and _dared_ take the leap.

“ _Ar lath ’ma vhen’an_. I love you. You are my home.”

He stilled with a shudder and his breath shook against her face as he let out a long exhale. Then Meryell let out a surprised squeak as Cullen abruptly flipped them, his weight coming down on top of her in that delicious way she loved about humans as he growled and kissed her. He kissed her throat, her cheek, her mouth, danced down in a pattern of kisses to nip her collarbones and press a delicate kiss into the low cut of her tunic that hinted at her breasts, before he came back up and claimed her mouth again. There were a dozen or more half-breathed _I love you_ s scattered through those kisses, words whispered as wonderfully against her skin as _vhen’an’ara_ had been.

Then he kissed her hard, like she was going to disappear from underneath him, and breathed, “ _Vhen’an_ ,” in a tone that she couldn’t put a word to.

She did note, a little deliriously, that the scattering of lessons she’d been giving him in Elven lately during their nights was paying off.

“ _Vhen’an_ ,” she replied with a nod as a knot of _something_ welled up in her throat. It burst out of her in a laugh and she reached up to tangle her hands in his curls, pulling him down to press her forehead to his. Shaking her head, Meryell closed her eyes and breathed, “I think...I think I’ve loved you for a while. I was just…”

“Scared,” he supplied as soon as her voice trailed off and she opened her eyes to look into his. Like Dem had told her once, eyes were the key to a person...and she could see everything _she_ felt in _his_.

Fear.

Love.

And an overwhelming sense of _yes_.

_Yes, this is good._

_Yes, this is right._

Meryell just nodded and Cullen smiled before kissing her softly. She deepened the kiss, made it an exploration, a quest for _more_ , by curling her hands deeper into his hair and pulling him down into her. He followed with a growl into her mouth, the sort of sound that rumbled from deep in his chest and rattled her bones, giving in utterly to her silent request.

“When did you know?” she asked in a moment that they separated for air. When he frowned down at her in slight confusion, Meryell clarified, “When did you know you loved me?”

“Oh,” replied Cullen, frowning slightly. He shifted slightly, resettling his weight over her, before he replied, “I think….no, I _know_ I realized I was falling for you after you went to the Hinterlands that first time. There was a night that I expected you to be there to drag me out of my tent for drinks and then realized that you weren’t there. It stole my breath and I knew that this was _something_ . But _love_...”

He looked away then and she watched his throat tense up before he swallowed hard. In a low voice he then finished, “I think I realized that I loved you when I thought I was about to lose you. There was no place for it then. Accepting it...well, that took a while.” Turning back towards her, he laughed. “Hawke actually made me see it yesterday.”

Meryell blinked. “When all that was going on?”

“I’m sure you didn’t notice my reaction when he called me a toy there to save you and you a princess.”

She shook her head because, no, she hadn’t. Her focus had been on Camden and she hadn’t let even Cullen’s presence drag that focus away. Not when she knew how quick on his feet that the other man could be.

Chuckling, Cullen said, “Apparently a man only looks that furious if someone’s insulted his sister, his mother, or his lover. So she took a guess.”

“And that…”

“Made me realize that it had been there for _so long_ but I’d been scared to grab it.” He shifted and lifted a hand to brush hairs away from her forehead as he continued, “Scared because I’d nearly lost you or I feared that one day you’d wake up and realize how broken I am.”

“Cullen,” she started to interrupt but he quickly moved to press a finger against her lips for a second, shaking his head.

“I feared you being named Inquisitor,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “Of how it would make us look. How it would make _you_ look.”

Now she _wouldn’t_ stay silent.

“You know I don’t fucking care about that,” interrupted Meryell.

“I know but I....duty was always important to me. Even before I joined the Order, I knew there were things that needed to be done as the eldest son and I should do them. It became even more important after because duty _is_ the Order...or it was supposed to be, at least.”

Frowning as she wondered what the point was, she flattened her hands against his chest and he let out a sudden breath before shaking his head. “I warred,” he continued, “between what I felt was my duty to the Inquisition...and the wants of my heart. Which was more important?”

She knew the answer, knew it because of how he’d responded to her words, of how swiftly he’d kissed her and said _I love you_ , but his words still made her tense.

He moved so he could cup her face in his hands and she stilled at the realization that he was smiling. Not just a normal smile but a broad, bright smile that she wasn’t certain that she’d _ever_ seen on his face. It was, she thought a little deliriously, the sort of expression he might always have worn if he’d never joined the Order. Then, however, she never would have met him and _that_ was a thing she abruptly couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

“And then,” he said warmly, “I realized after a conversation with Arnald that I already _knew_ the path I wanted to take.”

Meryell felt her heart hammering in her chest, like it was fit to burst through the confines of flesh and bone, at his words. Slowly she slid her hands up his chest and around to the back of his neck, where she locked her fingers together as she breathed, “And that path?”

She _knew_.

But _hearing_ ...hearing it made it _more real._

Still smiling that smile, Cullen leaned down and whispered, “ _You_ ,” before he kissed her. Meryell tugged on the back of his neck in return, wanting him closer, wanting him _everywhere_ . He was still supporting most of his weight on his arms and she wanted to tell him to _stop_.

That, however, would require her to drag her lips away from his right then and she wasn’t ready for that yet.

He nuzzled her face when they finally did separate themselves from each other but his mouth had other places it was going. As he kissed down her neck, Meryell stretched as far as she could to give him more access and nearly missed the question he murmured.

“And you, _vhen’an_?”

Laughing, she closed her eyes and replied, “First realization that I was falling for you? That night on the barrels.” She felt his lips stutter across her skin and there was a breathy exhale, after which she added onto her words. “You were handsome and human and so my type and….you called me _thief_ as if it meant the same as _lady_.”

With a smirk she moved her loosely locked together hands that had been hanging around his neck up into his hair, separating them as she did so. Gently putting pressure on his head with the heel of her hands to indicate she wanted him to move back up towards her, she turned her head to meet him as he did so.

“I fantasized,” she purred lowly, “about a moment like this. You on top of me with all of that delicious muscle bearing down on me. Your breath ghosting along my ear…like this.” Turning her head, she breathed out slowly towards his left ear, feeling him shiver as she watched his eyes grow _hungry_. Her breath caught as she was suddenly swept up in those emotions again, in the imagining that she’d had during those early morning hours.

Only this time there wasn’t anything to bring her down.

This _was_ reality.

Cullen was _there_ , his weight on top of her, and she knew the taste of him. Knew the smell, the texture of his skin, and the _heat_ of him as he held her close. She knew his fears and past and he knew hers and he _wanted her_.

 _She_ wanted the lyrium addict and _he_ wanted the knife-eared bitch.

Meryell felt like she’d stopped breathing for a moment at that thought and inhaled sharply before she said the rest in a low rush.

“Your face buried between my thighs, driving me towards orgasm.”

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” he breathed and she could immediately tell the effect her words had had on him from the pressure growing ever more noticeable where the lower halves of their bodies met. He pressed a kiss against her lips and asked, “And you...?

“Redcliffe,” she answered simply, knowing his question was when she’d started to love him. He merely nodded and kissed her again because he _knew_ . She hadn’t shared what she’d learned of his fate with the others, only that he had died leading an assault. Only she, he, and Dorian knew that he had died leading a hopeless assault on a keep he’d firmly stated was unassailable for _her_.

That knowledge had nearly broken her and the only thing that had picked her back up was Varric saying _It doesn’t happen if you go back, sweetheart. Let’s get you back to Curly._

“And how many times,” asked Cullen softly then, the edge of a growl lacing his voice, “did you fantasize about me like that?”

Smiling at his attempt to bring them back to safer ground, away from the time magic and death that tainted the events of Redcliffe and what had followed, Meryell replied, “Enough.”

“Did you....after your injury?”

“Maaaaybe,” she drawled, causing Cullen to grunt and lean closer to her, his eyes bright and intent.

He nuzzled her cheek with his nose and asked, “After Val Royeaux?”

Meryell pecked him lightly on the lips, to which he snorted, before she answered, “Yes.”

“After Haven?”

“Spending a night naked in that cot with you made me _all_ hot and bothered.” She grinned as _that_ particular response had an effect as his hips thrust against hers very briefly before he held himself still again.

Cullen kissed her then asked in a whisper, “Now?”

Laughing, she immediately pulled him down for another kiss by the front of his shirt as she answered, “What do I need fantasies for _now_ , _vhen’an_? There is no longer a need for them when I have you right here.”

Instantly the kiss went hot and hard and heavy after that comment left her lips. His mouth was firm in its wants and it claimed hers in a battle that Meryell gladly surrendered with only a little bit of fight as a token protest. He growled as she slid her hands underneath his shirt and asked, “What do you want now, love,” kissing her soundly before she could formulate even the hint of a reply. There was, for a long moment then, only the sensation of _him_ and _his mouth_ and all she could think in answer was that she wanted _more._

When they finally paused, breathing hard and heavy in almost unison with each other, she shifted to hook one of her legs around his hip and ground herself up against the bulge in his pants. He made a short whining noise in his throat in response, his eyes fluttering shut as she breathed, “Touch me.”

“Where?” asked Cullen thickly, his eyes still shut. She watched his pulse hammer in his throat, felt it thunder in his chest, and smiled before she arched her neck up to kiss that pulse point.

They had teased and they had touched skin but they had never gone further. Everything else had been with fabric between them, dry humping like a pair of children just discovering the act on the occasion that it went further than teasing. Though those moments had only been since arriving in Skyhold and they had been _rare_ still with work and days in the field.

“Everywhere,” Meryell replied, breathing her response into his skin and she felt him twitch. His whole body jumped at the word along with the very eager part of him that pressed against her crotch. After a moment he shifted his weight the side of her, propping himself up one arm so the other was free. The heat of that hand was almost searing against her skin as he trailed it up her side underneath her tunic but she was on fire herself, every nerve and inch screaming for _him him him_.

His movement seemed _agonizingly_ slow but she knew it wasn’t, though that didn’t stop her from whining and throwing her head back. Cullen growled and dove for her throat in response, kissing his way down until he met her collarbone and _sucked_ . Meryell bucked her hips, trying to find friction for the sudden fire between her thighs, and he obliged by tucking his leg between hers. As she clamped her thighs around it, determined to ride out the sensation and _wait_ now that she had something to hold onto, she realized that his fingers had found the knot of her breastband.

It took some doing - in which he grunted and cursed it in a low voice against her throat and made her laugh while she scratched her fingers against that favorite spot against the back of his neck to soothe frazzled nerves - but it finally came free. Cullen tugged the cloth out from under her with a huff and then held it up with a victorious growl, shaking it a little before he tossed it over his shoulder errantly. She quietly tucked the sight of him above her like that, eyes bright with desire with swollen lips and his curls in full unruly force while looking _so proud_ , away to remember fondly when she might need it most.

“Up,” he snarled in a rough voice as he tugged at her tunic, attempting to drag it up her sides several times. With her back against the cushions, however, it caught and Meryell couldn’t help but laugh at the frustrated look on his face.

Cullen growled in response, hissing, “A hand if you would, dear thief?”

“If I’m the thief,” she replied, “why are _you_ trying to steal _my_ shirt?”

He chuckled and leaned down to kiss her in response, replying gruffly, “I’m trying to find my heart. I believed you’ve _stolen_ it.”

She laughed at that, despite her heart pounding wildly at the answer, and silently arched her back. He ended up only pulling her tunic up just far enough to reveal her breasts, so small and certainly not enough to fill his hands, and just _stared_ for a moment. Meryell started to open her mouth to say something only to cut herself off with a gasp as Cullen bent and pressed a kiss against the curve of her right breast. His stubble tickled and then rasped as he immediately moved over to close his mouth over her nipple and her mind went _blank_ at the sensation. It stuttered back to life a moment later and Meryell lifted her head to look down at him as his eyes darted up to her while he smirked against her breast.

_Smirked._

Maker’s fucking cock, _this man._

What his mouth was doing sent little sparks of want cascading through her and then she felt his hand brush her now bare belly. Looking down past him, she saw his fingers stutter over the loop of her belt and turned her eyes to meet his as they asked silently for permission.

“ _Yes_ ,” she breathed and in two quick tugs he had her belt open. His fingers made equally quick work of the laces on her pants, tugging them just loose enough that he could slip his hand between the thick fabric and her skin. She shuddered at the feel of it, of his skin against hers there, anticipation tightening her body up into a silent scream.

Abruptly Cullen released her breast and moved back up to her face, kissing her cheek and then her mouth as he breathed, “This is...this is okay?” Part of her was undeniably frustrated with the pause because his fingers were _right there_ , so close to where she _fucking needed them_ , and he’d stopped. Meryell knew though too, that he was just being himself and worried given their earlier conversation.

Catching his face in her hands, she pulled him into a deep kiss that was all warring tongues and clashing teeth. She took his lower lip between her teeth as she pulled away, sucking on it before she released it with a resounding _pop_. He let out a pair of heavy breaths as he stared down at her in response, his eyes blown wide and dark, as she replied in a firm whisper, “You are not Camden.”

Cullen leaned in to kiss her again at that, breathing, “ _Vhen’an_ ,” as his hand slid further downward into her smalls. Meryell whined into his mouth as his fingers finally reached the curls between her legs and slid into the slick crevice, bucking her hips as he crooked a finger inside her. Then another joined it and they groaned as one as she thrust herself down onto his hand. He began a slow, almost tortuous pace within while his own hips stuttered against her hip in an aborted attempt at seeking completion.

Realizing that she was letting him do all of the work, Meryell freed herself from the kiss and breathed, “Side.”

“What?”

“Get on your side fully,” she replied, fighting against the haze of pleasure that was blocking coherent thought. Cullen obeyed with a blink, settling onto his side beside her rather than half leaned over her without ever entirely stopping the slow thrust of his fingers. Meryell immediately started scrabbling one handed at his waist as soon as he was settled. His breath caught on a sudden inhale at the same time that she finally found the edge of his shirt and jerked it up to reveal the tensed muscles of his belly and he breathed her name on the exhale.

Turning her head, she kissed him hard for a brief second before saying, “I can’t let you _give_ without giving _something_ in return.”

He just stared at her for a moment and there was _something_ suddenly in his eyes that she couldn’t put words to. Then Cullen closed them, shaking his head a little, and when he reopened his eyes a moment later whatever that something was was gone.

“Do not…” he breathed slowly, his voice shaking as his fingers slowed within her. “Do not ask _does this feel good_.”

For a moment she was confused and then realization hit like a thunderclap. _Kinloch. Demons._ There was a connection there, something _old_ and _strong_ , and she wondered if he’d discovered that during his time with the woman in Kirkwall, if that was what had stopped him going to her. It also made warmth curl in her chest despite the reminder of what he’d gone through because he had just shared a part of that. The worst thing that had happened to him, that he barely spoke of except in the vaguest terms, and he’d given her a _fragment_.

“I will not ask,” confirmed Meryell, sealing it with a kiss that he nodded into. Taking that as permission, she slid her hand teasingly down his stomach and savored the twitch of his muscles in her wake, before closing her fingers over the buckle of his belt. It ended up taking both of them to pry it loose, he chuckling and wriggling his other hand down between them to hold the buckle while she tugged the leather free. The long laces on his trousers, in comparison, were ridiculously easy to get past. Instead of doing as he’d done with hers and leaving them mostly still laced, she pulled them almost entirely open before sliding her hand into his smalls to wrap her hand around his cock and draw it free.

She kept her attention entirely on his face, wanting to watch to make sure she didn’t misstep and do something that would remind him of _then_ , and learned by touch instead. Varric’s flowery tongue might have described it as velvet and heat in one of his terrible romances but she wouldn’t say that herself. Heat, yes, but velvet made her think of soft things...and what she curled her fingers around was _anything_ _but soft_.

With her eyes on him, Meryell gave a slow, exploratory stroke and the _sound_ that it brought out of Cullen curled her toes and made her clench the walls of her cunt around his fingers.

“Yes?” she asked, low and soft. A simple question requiring a simple answer.

He let out a long breath and nodded. “ _Yes_.”

Smiling, Meryell pressed her mouth to his and as he responded, she started a set of strokes that made him grunt in surprise. In response she deepened the kiss, opening her mouth to his, and hummed when he responded in kind. After a moment his hand, which had stuttered to little more than occasional twitching between her legs, began to pick its pace back up. The world became little more than them in that moment, spiraling down into just the small space of them and the pleasure growing inside each of them.

At some point she turned onto her side as well to brace one leg up on his hip, allowing him better access as soon as he tugged her pants open wider. That also lead to her forehead being pressed hard against his mouth as her other hand fisted desperately in the fabric of his shirt, his other hand having found it’s way to hug the back of her head. There was only the ragged sounds of their breathing mixed with the noise that their bodies were making until he growled out into her skin, “I can’t...last.”

Bucking her head up, Meryell caught his mouth briefly before gasping, “Then _don’t_.”

Cullen managed to huff a laugh and asked, “You?”

“ _Almost_.”

He kissed her then growled, “Let’s fix that,” and she felt his thumb shift, searching, before it found the swollen knot of flesh at the head of her cunt. Meryell managed a single _fuck_ before he pressed down and rubbed that little spot and she swore she saw stars. It felt like she was being consumed, like the glorious feeling he’d brought to life inside of her was going to swallow her whole, like falling and flying all at once.

And the sensations kept shattering her, kept sending her higher and then bringing her back down again, as he kept his thumb at work. At least until she managed enough mildly coherent thought to get her hand moving again. One gentle squeeze and a few quick strokes of his cock had his hand twitching out of place between her thighs as he came with a dull shout, spending himself on the cushions beneath them and the front of her pants.

Breathing hard, Meryell wiped her hand on one of the cushions then scooted forward, tucking her chin underneath his as she pushed up his shirt to press her bare breasts against his skin. Cullen grunted dully in response, obviously still too caught up in the aftershocks, and she smiled as she nuzzled his throat while feeling her own still sparking through her body. When he did finally move, it was to grasp her hip with his hand and bring that part of her flush against him, trapping his slowly softening cock between them.

Then his lips pressed into her hair and he murmured, “We’re a mess.”

Laughing, she tipped her head back and bumped his chin with her nose. “A fucking amazing mess,” she said warmly. “That widow of yours from Kirkwall taught you well.” He chuckled in response then dipped his chin low to catch her mouth with kiss, a slow, sated thing that made her feel sleepy and content.

“I love you,” he said softly, as if the words might be stolen away if they were overheard, as soon as their lips separated.

“ _Ar lath ‘ma_ ,” she replied as she tucked her head underneath his chin again, closing her eyes in contentment. Cullen closed his arms around her fully and nuzzled his nose into her hair before he let out a long breath that slowly fell into the steady rhythms of sleep. Meryell just lay there listening for a moment, her own exhaustion not yet dragging her down and smiled as she ran her hand idly across his side, touching a faded scar here and the hard ridges of a muscle there.

When it finally pulled her under, dragging her into dreams and the Fade, she had a single final thought.

_Who knew that Camden’s bullshit would bring me this?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smutty part of this chapter was brought to you by repeat playings of The Lightning Strike (What If This Storm Ends?) by Snow Patrol, Brave Enough by Lindsey Stirling and Christina Perri, and Hold My Heart by Lindsey Stirling and ZZ Ward.
> 
>  **Elven/Elvhen Translations:  
> **  
>     
> Ma eth an > my safe place  
> Vin > yes  
> Ar lath ‘ma vhen’an > i love you. You are my home.  
> Vhen’an > home / heart


	32. “Well, I just knew that you couldn't bear to be without Varric's calming presence, Cass. Hawke had to come and Dorian was just a lovely bonus.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It just isn't an Inquistion road trip without Dorian complaining about it being wet and Cassandra making exasperated noises because of the rest of the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re officially dubbing the Crestwood section of the story “The Adventures of Cassandra and the Snark Quintet”.

“Meryell, darling.”

“Yes, Dorian, love?” called Meryell over her shoulder as she focused on the path ahead of them. Cassandra, riding next to her, made a distinct noise of annoyance in response. Likely because she knew what was coming.

“ _Why_ ,” intoned the mage seriously, “is it _always_ raining whenever you take me places?”

Varric snorted a laugh from where he rode at the back of their line with Hawke. “Obviously it's your gloomy personality, Sparkler.”

“ _Gloomy_?” gasped Dorian with mock outrage. “Varric, how dare you imply that I am anything less than perfect?”

Hawke chuckled as she pointed out, “Because my dwarven friend is a master of _bullshit_.”

“Now, Hawke, don't say that. Tiny has perfect control of himself.”

Cassandra growled between gritted teeth and Meryell laughed under her breath as she turned her head to see the woman rolling her eyes skyward. She and Cullen shared a similar exasperated look when they were asking the Maker silently for strength; so similar that she half wondered if it was a Chantry taught thing.

“Is there a reason,” she asked under her breath, “that you brought _all_ of them?”

Grinning, Meryell replied, “Well, I just knew that you couldn't _bear_ to be without Varric's calming presence, Cass. Hawke had to come and Dorian was just a lovely bonus.”

The warrior snorted at that, shaking her head. “Calming is hardly how I would choose to describe him. He is more like a burr under the saddle.”

“Annoying but you can't get rid of it without far too much work?”

Cassandra tipped her head forward in a nod, a small smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “Justly so,” she murmured. Then her eyes hardened as she added, “Though that is not _all_.”

Meryell tilted her head to the side at the older woman and gave her Forder a press of her knee. Just enough to bring him closer to Cassandra's mount, a big black Amaranthine Charger who stood at least two hands taller than her horse and was _fit for a warrior_ according to Dennet. Keeping her voice low so it wouldn't carry back to the others, she said, “You can't be angry at him forever.”

The immediate look on Cassandra's face said that she _damn well could_ and _was_ going to continue being angry.

Shaking her head, Meryell pressed, “He was just trying to protect them.”

“I was not his enemy.”

“He didn’t know that from shite.”

Cassandra pressed her lips into a hard white line and Meryell turned her attention back to the path that was leading them to the camp that Harding had managed to put together in the few weeks it had been since Hawke’s unannounced arrival at Skyhold. As she was tugging the map out of her saddlebag to make sure that they were still heading the right direction, the Seeker let out a little huff of air.

“I am being absurd again, aren’t I?” she asked in a quiet voice. “Turning my eye back to the past and regretting. It is unworthy of me. To doubt.”

“Doubt you made the right choice?” asked Meryell lightly, her eyes focused on the map as she laid it across her saddlehorn. Keeping her horse facing steady forward with her knees, she lifted up the edges as she added, “Or doubt that you made the wrong one?”

“Perhaps both.” The warrior next to her shrugged, a motion she was only aware of by the lift of the woman’s arms out of the corner of her eye. “As I said before, perhaps if I had merely _explained_...if I had told him what we faced…”

“Wouldn’t have mattered,” she interrupted and looked up at the other woman. “We may call Varric many things, Cass, but he doesn’t give away the secrets he's trusted with.” As Cassandra nodded, Meryell tucked the map away before it got too wet before lifting a hand to rap her knuckles lightly against the warrior’s vambraces. “Besides, if you had Hawke for Inquisitor, it’s very fucking likely you wouldn’t have me.”

Cassandra’s expression softened at that and she smiled as she nodded in agreement. “You are right.” Then she flinched as she added, “I am sorry, my friend. I do not mean to imply that I would wish you…”

“Dead?”

The woman grimaced in response and bowed her head. When she lifted it again, Cassandra said, “I would regret not having known you, Inquisitor.” As Meryell flashed a glare at her, she smiled and inclined her head slightly forward. “Meryell. My apologies.”

“I’ll forgive it. Just this fucking once though.”

Cassandra laughed lightly because that had been her response to every utterance of _Inquisitor_ the woman had given her since she’d laid down the rule about her name in the war room. Then she smiled and said warmly, “I may regret some steps on the path but I do not regret where it has brought me. Nor the friend it has brought me.”

Meryell sniffed mockingly, immediately earning a light cuff on her shoulder as she said, “Aww, Cass, you're making me cry.”

“You make light of me!”

“Only because you make it so easy.”

Cassandra made a noise of annoyance but there was a smile creeping at the corners of the Seeker’s mouth. Meryell grinned at her and picked up the reins of her horse again before calling over her shoulder, “Oy, you lot! We’re almost to camp!”

“There had better be _dry_ tents!” came Dorian’s immediate reply and she just shook her head at his antics. It actually was barely _drizzling_ fucking water on them but judging by the state of the clouds that wouldn’t likely last long. So instead of replying to him, she put her heels to the sides of her Forder and sent him forward into a steady lope.

“Well, come on then, _tarlan_! Before we soak all of your skirts through!”

She heard Hawke laugh loudly from behind them as Cassandra pushed her Charger to follow, the big horse’ hooves eating up what little lead she’d gotten. Then Dorian said loudly, “I'm not certain what that word means, darling, but I feel as if I’ve been _insulted_.”

Meryell tipped her head back at that and _laughed_ until her sides hurt by the time they rode into North Gate Camp.

* * *

Despite the fact that she was sharing a tent with Cassandra on this trip, somehow all four of them (Hawke had insisted on heading on on her own) ended up crammed into it by the time the skies unleashed their full fury upon them. She still wasn’t quite certain how they’d managed it, but they had.

Cassandra was settled on her side across her cot, a small smile on her face as she read whatever book was her current project. It certainly wasn’t one of the more racy ones that Meryell had caught her reading on one of their first occasions of sharing a tent. There wasn’t enough of a blush on her cheeks for that.

Varric had dragged a folding camp chair with him when he and Dorian had practically raided their tent. After settling it at the end of Meryell’s cot nearest the securely tied door, he’d sat there in near silence as he carefully balanced an ink pot in two fingers and wrote. It was impressive because the ink was in the same hand that was balancing the board he was using to write on with only his folded knee as minor aid.

Somehow Meryell had found herself in the floor - which was thankfully protected from the rain by two of the camp soldiers digging shallow trenches around every tent - and Dorian had planted himself behind her on _her_ cot. She had an arm looped over each of his knees that he’d settled on either side of her and hummed randomly as he run his fingers through her hair in an attempt to tame it. Attempt was the word because he kept pausing to curse under his breath in a slew of Tevene that she only caught the occasional word that she knew of while his fingers nimbly banished a knot from her hair.

“Darling, this is a _disaster_ ,” he muttered in the common tongue as he worked on another knot, buried deep in her hair towards the base of her skull. “How do you put up with this?”

“Basically go _fuck it_ in the mornings,” she replied with a slight shrug. When he made an appalled noise, she tipped her head back to look up at him with an arched eyebrow. “I normally don’t let it get this long. Keep meaning to cut the shit.”

“Well,” he said strongly, “if you are determined to let it remain in this state and not care for it, I will cut it for you myself. This is an _insult_ to such glorious locks.”

Meryell shrugged. “Long hair just gets in the way.” She then drew one of her legs up to her chest and dug a thin dagger out of a sheath on her boot, flipping it blindly in her hand before lifting it towards him hilt first. “If you would do the honors, good ser.”

He sighed theatrically, muttering about it being such a _sin_ to waste such lovely hair, but took the dagger from her nonetheless. Shaking her head lightly at his antics, she instantly stopped as his hands caught her head and held her still while looking down at her with an arched eyebrow.

“No moving if I’m to be doing this. Cutting you is the last thing I want to do. Now...how short?”

“ _Short_ ,” she replied as she lifted her head back upright. “Almost as short as yours.”

Dorian made another mournful sound that earned a glare from Cassandra and a low chuckle from Varric. Then he gave a low, “Very well, whatever pleases you, darling,” and grasped a long lock of brown hair in one hand. Meryell felt the blade of her dagger ghost along her neck for a brief instant before he found the spot he wanted and cut upwards with it.

It was a little strange to realize that it hadn’t been all that long since they’d met in Redcliffe but she trusted him utterly with a dagger at her throat. Or, given what they'd gone through together, maybe not so strange at all.

He was moving along just fine until he’d cleared away most of the longest bits of her hair and made an amused noise in his throat. Meryell frowned as his warm hand gently tipped her head forward, his thumb gliding down to brush the neck of her tunic away from the base of her throat.

“ _Darling_ ,” he purred abruptly with abject glee in his voice, “have you and our dashing Commander finally decided to tangle beneath the sheets?”

Meryell instantly regretted the loss of the long hair as she felt heat sear across her cheeks. Looking up from her position, she caught Cassandra’s eyes and the woman merely arched an eyebrow at her in silent comment. It said _I will stop them if you wish it_ and she smiled in thanks before shaking her head. In all actuality...she was a bit _eager_ to spill the fact to her friends that their relationship had moved forward the little bit that it had.

“What’s that, Sparkler?” asked Varric and she heard him hurriedly settle his things somewhere else and rise. While Cassandra scoffed loudly, the dwarf laid a warm hand against her shoulder as he leaned forward to look at what Dorian had found. As he whistled impressively, she allowed herself a little smile.

Straightening up against the light press of Dorian’s hand, Meryell turned to look at her oldest friend in the Inquisition in the eye as she said, “It doesn’t fucking complete your bet.”

Varric just laughed at that and said, “As if you two would let us know if it did! I’m not certain anyone’s going to ever win that bet, sweetheart.”

“Ah-ah,” chided Dorian as he lifted a hand, “I want to hear the story of that mark. It’s practically still new, which means you and our Commander were together before we left Skyhold days ago.”

Meryell just smiled brightly and nodded before proudly declaring, “In his Tower. Fully clothed. Against the door.”

She wasn’t about to share anything else about those hours of that morning with them. They didn’t get to hear how she’d perched on his desk for a kiss and somehow ended up against the main door with his hand inside her trousers. Nor would they hear how they’d terrified at least one guard who’d attempted to open that door - Cullen had _snarled_ at him and all they’d heard was a hitch of breath and running feet. Or how they’d no doubt embarrassed another when one had started to open the east door and she’d called out _I wouldn’t_ before Cullen had torn his attention away from her neck long enough to growl an angry _Out._ No, the memory of her legs wrapped around him as he pressed her against the door, his teeth nipping at her jaw and throat as he brought her soaring to completion was all for her.

It was certainly going to do a lot to keep her bedroll warm on this trip.

As the mage made a disappointed clucking noise in his throat at the words _fully clothed_ , she heard a choked little gasp from Cassandra. Turning to her friend, Meryell quirked her lips into a wicked smile. “To paraphrase him once: he’s no fucking saint.”

 _Now_ there was a blush in the warrior’s cheeks.

The words just made Varric laugh harder before he exclaimed, “I think I owe Curly a drink! Maybe more than one.” As Meryell started to lift a hand to point at him, he held up his own hands in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t you worry, Swears, I’ll be quiet about it. You know other than the bet I respect you and Curly’s right to privacy.”

“Thank you.” She then tilted her head back slightly and asked, “Dorian?”

Sighing theatrically, he replied, “Very well. May I at least use it in our chess games? It might actually make him distracted enough to miss my cheating enough for me to win.”

Frowning jokingly, Meryell lifted a hand to tap her fingers against her chin as she hummed as if in consideration and Dorian whined, “Oh, darling, _please_ . I’ll promise only to do it when you’re nearby even. Honestly, the man is _insufferable_ when he wins all of the time.”

Cassandra snorted at that as she turned her attention back to her book while asking, “Insufferable? Is that really how you would describe him?”

“Oh, yes. He’s quite proud of his chess skills.”

“Can’t have Curly getting too big of a head,” Varric muttered with a wink at Meryell, which she rolled her eyes at. She then clapped her hands on the outsides of Dorian’s shins and let out a huff of breath.

“ _Fine_ ,” she said sharply. “But only in chess games, Dorian, and only if he’s really being insufferable.”

“Ha, yes! This is why I love you, darling,” cheered the mage. She then felt him bend forward before he pressed a light kiss to the top of her head. “You let me do the _best_ things.”

“Like set fools on fire?” piped Meryell as Varric shook his head and returned to his writing since Cassandra was already embroiled in her book again.

Dorian just chuckled as he turned his attention back to her hair, gathering up more strands before he carefully pressed the blade of her dagger up against them. “For you, Meryell, I would set all the fools in Thedas alight.”

“Now let’s not be hasty,” piped Varric from his seat. “We’re trying to save the world, not burn it down.”

“Fine, _fine_ ,” grumbled Dorian as Meryell laughed. “Only _half_ the fools then. Is that more acceptable?”

“Hmmm, well, probably some of those could be still used by Ruffles and Nightingale to get the Inquisition what it needs.”

With another theatrical sigh, the mage growled, “Very well, I will only set the fools we run across on fire. That way our rather terrifying ladies will have no need to possibly be angry at me.”

Meryell just smiled and patted his leg before saying, “Probably the best course of action. Particularly for Leliana.”

Dorian scoffed at that. “A fact,” he began pointedly, “that you would know very well. I feel no need to irritate our lovely spymaster into such a similar feeling of rage around me.”

Rolling her eyes at his words, Meryell relaxed back against the cot and deigned not to respond to that comment. Instead she merely let herself fall into the sensation of Dorian’s quick fingers in her hair, in the steady breaths and whisper of turning pages of Cassandra, and the rasp of Varric’s quill across parchment. The rain pattering the outside of the tent and the ground outside was a calming backdrop to the sounds of part of her Inquisition family and she smiled to herself.

Finally - _fucking finally_ \- things felt right again after that shit with Camden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Elven/Elvhen Translations: **
> 
> tarlan > princess


	33. “I’m...I’m sorry, Ambassador. Did you ask something?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are things that Cullen tells those he trusts...and there are things that, even now, he keeps close to his chest. Sometimes, however, there are days that he can't keep those things entirely hidden from those around him...even if _he_ doesn't notice that they notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is DRAMATICALLY late and it is utterly my fault. It's been a shitty feeling week for me and I just struggled through writing this the whole week from the sheer sense of UGH. Have no fear, however, the next chapter is already done and I'm already working on 35 to fill in the gap for the already pretty much complete 36.

_Push through...one more...one more…_

Cullen gritted his teeth, hearing them grind against each other as he forced himself through another push-up. He was barely through the normal amount he did upon waking and he was already sweating like he had run several laps of the battlements. His arms shook weakly from the effort, every muscle straining, but he refused to give into weakness.

He couldn't afford weakness.

 _The Inquisition_ couldn't afford weakness.

Snarling wordlessly, he managed two more before his arms refused to continue. As he hit the cold stone of the floor below his loft, he cursed loudly.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

For a long moment he just laid there, eyes closed and breathing hard as the coolness of the stone leached some of the excess heat from his body. Then he curled his lip and slapped angrily at the stones with both hands, frustrated beyond words at his weakness.

What use was he if he barely had the strength of a kitten? What use was he when most of the time lately he was blinded by headaches so _fierce_ that he couldn't see?

What use was he to the Inquisition like this?

To Meryell?

The _ache_ twisted inside him then, a sharp pain focused somewhere around his stomach and Cullen gasped. He turned onto his side and curled up reflexively, bringing his arms in to wrap around himself. It did _nothing_ because this wasn't a pain that physical touch could soothe.

No, only the cool blue liquid inside his old kit, mixed precisely and accurately, could quench the ache. It would smother the feeling in light and warmth and he would feel _so good_. All it took was reaching into the bottom drawer of the his desk for the box...

And his chains would tighten around him again.

“ _No_ ,” Cullen snarled aloud, turning his head towards the cool stone to rest his forehead against it. He was _stronger_ than this.

He was more than an _addict_.

He would not give in.

He would _not._

Letting out a harsh breath, he slowly forced himself to uncurl and climbed to his feet. Everything _hurt_ but he still had time for the sensation to work through itself. Given that he’d gotten little sleep from the nightmares - which always seemed to take a worse turn nowadays when Meryell was away - it wasn’t even dawn yet. He had time.

Tilting his head back, Cullen rested his hands on his hips and just stood breathing for a moment. Then he turned and walked over to his desk, sighing a little as he sat down because the chair was soothingly cool against his bare back. For a moment he just sat before scooting forward to pick up his quill and open the ink pot to dab the tip into it.

There was work to do.

* * *

“Commander, are you well?”

“Hmm?” queried Cullen as he looked up from his perusal of the war room map. His focus on it and the hard grip he had on the hilt of his sword was literally the only thing keeping him from collapsing right then and there. The pains of the morning hadn’t gone away at all and now he had a headache to go along with them, lancing pains at his temples and the base of his skull that made it hard to think at times.

He found Josephine frowning at him worriedly from across the table, Leliana having already vacated the room judging by the open door, and furrowed his brow slightly.

“I’m...I’m sorry, Ambassador,” he said softly, blinking at her. “Did you ask something?”

The Antivan woman slightly dropped the arm holding up her ever-present board and replied, “I asked if you were well, Commander. You missed several questions that Leliana and I asked during the meeting and you seem…” She pursed her lips and he imagined she was looking for a polite way of saying _looking_ _like_ _shit_. The descriptor was certainly what he felt like right now. “...distracted.”

Cullen nodded before he frowned, asking, “I missed questions?” He didn’t even remember missing something. Had his memory lapsed? Or had he simply been so caught up ignoring the aches in his bones that he’d missed them?

“Yes,” she answered lightly. Josephine then laid her board on the table where she stood across from him and rested her hands on either side of it. “Is it the Inquisitor’s absence distracting you?”

Part of him needled at him to answer honestly, to say that _no_ he wasn't okay because he _hurt_ and barely slept for the nightmares and he wanted lyrium so badly that it made his teeth _ache_...but he didn't.

Instead he merely forced a smile onto his face and nodded as he said, “Yes. It's quite...well... _quiet_ without Meryell around. I apologize for my lapse, it won't happen again.”

Lifting a hand to flick it idly towards him in a dismissive gesture, she returned, “No apology needed, Commander. I understand the distraction of missing someone you care for.” He tilted his head curiously at her comment but didn't have a chance to say anything as she went on. “Do you need anything?”

“What?” asked Cullen, a little confused. Josephine had never asked such a question, not in the time they'd known each other. “No. Thank you, Josephine, but no. I'm fine. I believe I'll stay in here for a while and get some work done.”

He caught just the bare edge of her frown before it disappeared alongside the clear worry in her eyes. Josephine picked up her board then and cradled it against her chest as she dipped a knee in a slight curtsey.

“Then I leave you to your day, Commander.”

“Good day, Ambassador “

She pulled the door almost shut behind her as she left and Cullen sagged almost immediately against the table. He kept one hand on the map to brace himself and freed the other from his sword so he could pinch the bridge of his nose. The ache at his temples lessened for a brief instant before it came roaring back and he let out an involuntary grunt of pain in response. Immediately after he stiffened and stared at the door, wondering if she'd heard the echo of it down the short hall in her office.

When there was only silence and his own breathing in response for several moments, Cullen relaxed. He looked down at the map again and as soon as the letters of the Frostbacks began to swim, he knew he would be actually taking the time spent in the war room to try and pull himself back together. There wasn't any work that could be done when he couldn't even see where his men were or where he might need to send them.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he leaned on the table for a long time until he felt like he could stand without support. Cullen then slowly made his way over to one of the chairs in the room and sank into it with a heavy sigh. He dropped his head back against the top of the chair and just tried to breathe.

The day had barely started and he could only feel like it was going to get worse.

* * *

Hours later he managed to make it out of the war room and into the great hall right as the lunch hour was starting. Unfortunately his stomach immediately roiled at the delicious smell of the stew that had been prepped into the kitchens. Cullen fled out the main doors in response and breathed deeply as soon as his boots touched the ground of the upper courtyard.

He _needed_ food but if he couldn't stomach the smell, it wouldn't do much good for him to get anything. It either wouldn't make it into him at all or he would just end up expelling it later when his stomach inevitably rebelled.

Sighing, he shook himself and turned to head down the stairs to the lower courtyard. At this hour the training yard opposite the stables would be empty and he could work through exercises without being interrupted (for the most part). Doing those usually helped take his mind off of the pain in his head and the ache in his gut. Not to mention glossing over the fact that it wasn’t the exercise making every muscle hurt.

Cullen stomped down into the yard, already working at his belt so he could lose his coat and armor. He’d learned the hard way that if he was going to do his usual training exercises, it was best to not be wearing either. The first time he’d tried had ended up with him overheating so much that he’d spent the rest of the day half-feverish in his tent, puking into a bucket.

Once everything was off and stacked neatly on top of the old stump that sat at the edge of the yard near the keep’s well, he rolled his shoulders from one side to another. Something cracked in his back in response but he ignored that and the twinge of pain that flared down his spine (which he was certain was _age_ and not _withdrawal_ ) to head over to the practice weapon racks. They had sheltered them right up against the stable wall, fashioning an extension to the eave of the roof so it would give them some cover from the elements if they didn’t end up covered with the oil cloths specifically set aside for that purpose. At the moment the cloths were folded up off to the side given the run of decent weather they’d had lately and the fact that he knew that Rylen had had men training this morning.

Pulling a sword from the rack, Cullen tested the feel of the weighted wooden blade for a moment before he brought it up into a sharp salute in front of his face. He nearly hit himself in the process and, though he wasn’t certain whether it was the weight or the weakness of his arm, he traded the sword out for a slightly heavier one before he picked up the one of the few full-size practice shields.

Saluting again, this time to an invisible opponent, he turned his attention to the closest training dummy. Almost immediately his left shoulder started to ache but he ground his teeth together and pushed through.

He counted swings and kept up a running commentary in his head as another way to distract himself.

_One-two...parry...three-thrust...dead._

Slowly Cullen lost himself in the movement, in the counting. There was only him, the dummy, and his sword and shield.

_One...feint...two-three...parry...four...dead._

Time slipped away and he wasn’t certain how long if had been. Normally he could tell by how sore he was but that was an invalid method of determination when he was this deep in withdrawal. _Everything_ hurt, so how could he know when there was more?

_Parry...one-two…_

“Fancy a real opponent instead of that lump of straw, Commander?”

The sudden voice made Cullen jump, which caused his sword to miss its downward swing. As the blade bounced off the dummy’s shoulder, sending a slightly jarring pain rattling up his arm, he regained control of the weapon before he turned to regard his visitor. Blackwall arched his eyebrows from where he leaned against the corner of the stable and let out a short huff of breath when he did but the other man didn’t say anything.

“You offering?” he asked after regaining his breath.

“Only if you want something that hits back,” replied Blackwall. “I'm no Cassandra but I think I can give you enough of a fight.”

Chuckling, Cullen admitted, "I don't think I could handle Cassandra today anyway. And I certainly won't turn down a sparring partner...particularly not one I hear my men speaking so highly of.” Blackwall looked oddly _uncomfortable_ at the compliment but perhaps that was the way of the Wardens. It wasn’t like he was particularly knowledgeable in the workings of them with his only interactions being the few moments Amell and Alistair Theirin had been in the Tower (which hadn’t been the best of circumstances obviously). He didn’t count the few rare occasions in Kirkwall when he had so happened to see Anders as they had mostly been from a distance.

As the other man straightened up and began tugging at the ties that fastened the padded gambeson he usually wore around Skyhold together, Cullen asked, “Shields or no?”

“Your preference, Commander,” came the reply, slightly muffled as Blackwall tugged the fabric over his head. He tossed it over the stone edge of the well before he began rolling up his shirt sleeves so they sat just above his elbows. “I’m the one that interrupted your exercises.”

“Less exercise than distraction,” muttered Cullen as he loosened the strap on the shield to pull it off his arm. He was certain that he’d kept his voice low enough so as not to actually be heard by the other man but that impression was swiftly cast aside with Blackwall’s next comment.

“Missing the lass, then?”

He couldn’t help how his shoulders stiffened up just a little at having been heard because he _felt_ like that comment had given away too much. Obviously Blackwall hadn’t taken it the way he meant it, assuming he was talking about a distraction from Meryell’s absence and not the withdrawal, but the idea of someone else _knowing_ itched at the back of his mind.

Those that already knew about it were also knowledgeable in how templars worked, in what lyrium did and could do to them. The population at large, however, didn’t know about templars and lyrium. If they knew how the Inquisition’s Commander _hungered_...well...they might not look kindly on an addict being in charge of the army.

Sometimes he felt like others could just look at him and _know_.

“Right,” he managed to comment lightly after a moment, trying to force his tone away from the unease it wanted to fall into. “It’s never quite the same when she’s out in the field.”

“Ha, never is,” noted Blackwall. “The tavern’s always more quiet without her around. Though Sera doesn’t get into as much shit.”

“Maker’s breath, don’t even remind me of what a mess those two are together.”

That made the other man laugh and Cullen smiled slightly as he put the sword he’d been using back into the rack, replacing the shield as well. Then he removed two of the long two-handed practice swords from their fastenings and tossed one towards Blackwall. The Warden grunted as he caught it and asked, “Thinking of changing your tactics, Commander?”

Shrugging, Cullen turned away from the side of the stable and took a few steps as he swung the sword experimentally. It was considerably heavier than the one-handed sword had been and put a far greater strain on his arms and shoulders but he could take the pain. He then turned to grin at the other man as he replied, “I keep in practice with both. And I think you can call me Cullen, Blackwall. You aren’t a subordinate of mine.”

“No,” he replied, “but it’s a matter of respect. You’re a good Commander, I can tell by how your men talk about you.”

_Would they do the same if they knew? If they knew about the nightmares and the cravings and the nights spent in agony? Would they still see someone to respect...or only someone to pity?_

“We’ll call saying my name respect enough,” Cullen said as he tried to shove the thoughts away but they burrowed into his skull like mice in the grain stores. He needed _distraction._ Bringing his sword up into a high guard, he dropped into a defensive stance as he barked, “Attack, ser!”

Blackwall’s dark eyebrows furrowed for a moment, as if he were considering something, then he nodded sharply and readied himself. When he swung a moment later and Cullen caught the jarring strike on the metal quillons fastened around the top of the wooden hilt, all he could think was _Yes. This is the distraction I need._

* * *

Unfortunately like most things, the distraction didn’t last.

Cullen’s attacks and parries finally began to flag when the muscles all along his shoulders and upper back began to burn constantly. Blackwall was the one that called it off, however, begging off as tiredness and needing to be elsewhere. He had a briefly delirious thought that the other man knew how bad off he was when he asked _Alright there, Cullen_ but shook it away, dismissing it as the madness it was.

Maybe he looked like shit but he certainly didn’t look like the withdrawn addict that his mind kept insisting he did.

So he replied that he was fine if tired, put away the weapons, and gathered up his things to make his way slowly back up the stairs to the upper courtyard and into the keep. He returned to his tower to stow his armor and resisted the urge to just go ahead and climb up into his second floor to fall into bed, instead going up only for a fresh tunic and breeches. Then he headed back across into the keep and went down to the bathing room that had been Josephine’s own little pet project to get setup inside. Mostly for the use of herself and Leliana but the invitation for using it had been expanded to the rest of the inner circle and himself as well as Meryell.

Not that he complained at all about her project. She’d brought in dwarven engineers to redesign what had been a small hall on the third ground floor and had spared little expense now that they had funds coming back in, even putting in runes to control the water flow as well as heat if desired. Normally he didn’t appreciate such luxuries (a quick bath from a basin was usually good enough for him most days when he was in a hurry) but the heat had turned out to be a good cure to his aches.

Some of the time anyway.

Today was not one of those days. Instead of soothing the aches, the heat merely leached the soreness temporarily out of his muscles but did nothing for the bone deep ache in them. And, rather like Gil’s potion that he'd taken before leaving his office this morning, it did nothing for his pounding headache.

He lingered longer than he normally would have, still hoping for a change, but finally accepted that it was as good as it was going to get. By the time he was dressed again, there were spots behind his eyes from the pain in his head and he was swaying slightly. If he didn't know how long it would be before he would be found, he would have seriously considered just collapsing in the floor.

Instead he forced himself out of the room with his dirty clothes in hand and slowly began climbing the stairs that led back up to the second ground floor of the keep. He found himself breathing hard all too quickly and Cullen was doubly frustrated when he had to grab the wall of the stairwell to steady himself.

_What bloody use am I like this?!_

Abruptly there was the sound of quickly approaching footsteps from above and he straightened painfully. As he leaned against the wall of the stairwell, while wondering how he was going to explain his lurking, he looked up and saw the familiar face. Immediately he relaxed, closing his eyes as he murmured, “Rylen.”

“Andraste’s puckered nipples, Cullen, what are you doing?” snapped the Starkhaven man. He bounced down the last few steps between them and reached out to steady him, pushing him back against the wall. “You look like _shit_.”

Snorting, Cullen opened one eye and said, “I'm glad I can rely on you to always be honest with me.”

“Shit warmed over,” grumbled his captain. Rylen then looked him up and down before he asked softly, “It taking the piss out of you?”

“I'm fairly certain it's already taken that and more,” he replied weakly while silently thanking the man for not mentioning lyrium or withdrawal by name. The walls had ears, after all.

Rylen just snorted then said, “Fuck all then. You can't go through the main hall in a state like this; there's nobles up there at the moment all fluttering about. Last thing we need is them whispering that our Commander's unwell. Guess we'll have to get you out back to your office another way.”

Cullen grimaced at the mention of nobles before he nodded weakly in agreement. Then he caught the slightly stressed _we_ that Rylen had said and frowned. “We?”

“I wasn't coming down here _alone_ , Commander,” replied his captain, a bit of a flush in the man's cheeks. Almost immediately more footsteps came pounding down the stairs and Cullen stiffened before he could think too hard on that blush. Then the owner of the steps called out and he relaxed in relief that it was _him_ and not a stranger.

“You wouldn't _believe_ how fucking hard it is to get away from that wretched woman,” Folke was saying as he rounded the turn in the stairwell. He slowed immediately at the sight of them and his brows furrowed before he stopped with a grunt. “You look like shit, _isha’len.”_

“So I keep getting told today,” Cullen commented dryly.

Folke snorted before saying, “We can't take him through the hall.”

“Already covered that.”

The hedge mage flipped a hand errantly at Rylen before he scratched at the faint stubble on his jaw. “There's an old servant's stair on the second floor that I think leads up to that area above the hall. It's on the other side of the floor though.”

“We can get him there.”

“Darling, I know how able bodied and strong we both are but we're both shorter than our dear Commander. Not to mention that he's all but falling down if not for that wall.”

Cullen frowned before slowly asking, “Folke, how exactly do you know how able Rylen i…” His jaw snapped shut as his mind caught back up with the fact that the mage had been chasing his captain ever since the arrival of the Fangs in Haven. As the mage turned and arched his eyebrows curiously, he quickly added, “Nevermind. I really don’t want to know what either of you get up to in your spare time.”

“Not even…” began Rylen teasingly but Cullen lifted a hand in a gesture for him to stop.

“Don’t let it interfere in your job. End point.”

“Ah,” said Folke airily as he stepped down to the stair just above the one both Cullen and Rylen were standing on. “You run by the same rule as the Captain. But our _extracurriculars_ are unimportant. Getting you in bed is the priority.”

Groaning, Cullen hissed, “It isn’t even halfway throu…”

“ _Isha’len_ ,” the mage interrupted sternly as he laid a hand on Cullen’s shoulder, his gray eyes starkly serious, “I know you have a habit of pushing yourself through terrible situations and fair reason as well as experience for doing so. _This_ is not something that you can do that with all of the time. If this is how you treat yourself while attempting to come out the other side of this, I and Gil need to have a serious sit down talk with you.”

Bristling slightly because he knew his own damned limits, Cullen straightened up against the wall so he could stare the man in the eye as he hissed, “About _what_?”

Folke narrowed his eyes in return, his stare turning hard, before he replied in an undertone, “ _Lyrium_ and the things we’ve seen it do. Don’t push away those that know things, son. Not with this. Not with my daughter in this.”

The mention of Meryell cut all of the wind out of his sails.

Cullen bowed his head in the wake of the look that he could only describe as disappointed and let out a breath. He steadied himself against the wall with his shaking left hand, curling the right that was holding his clothes into his chest. Then he murmured, “I apologize.”

“Don’t need an _apology_ , Cullen,” said Folke as the mage carefully took hold of his left arm, slipping underneath it so it fell across his shoulders with a speed that reminded him of the man’s many years as a mercenary. He’d probably helped to carry many fellows, both drunk and injured. “I need you,” he continued as he secured his grip on Cullen’s wrist, “to stop being such a stubborn shit like most templars are.”

The man then snorted as if to himself and Cullen looked up as Folke smiled at Rylen. “No offense to you, darling.”

Rylen just snorted before he reached out to gently grab Cullen’s right wrist in one hand and the ball of dirty clothes in the other. Heat flared across his cheeks and the back of his neck in embarrassment at the situation and for a moment he fought to not relinquish his grip on them. Unfortunately the withdrawal and exhaustion mixed with the lack of food didn’t lend him much advantage and Cullen’s grip fell slack as the muscles of his hand and arm shook. He cursed under his breath and both of the other men seemingly ignored it as his captain turned around to face the same direction as he was, drawing his arm across his shoulders.

“None taken,” commented Rylen finally. Cullen caught the other man’s jerk of his head out of the corner of one eye and frowned as he added, “I’ve hung around this one long enough to know he’s a whole different class of stubborn from the rest of us.”

“Traitor,” grumbled Cullen goodnaturedly. Even if he was slightly annoyed, he knew that Rylen meant well.

Folke also meant well, in his own way.

The Starkhavener just grinned, a bright flash of teeth against the dark contrast of the tattoos on his chin, then said, “Well, come on then. Let’s get him to bed. On three.”

Somehow after that Cullen lost track of time, losing it in a haze of muttered voices and the smell of unused places and the distinct feel of strong arms being the only thing keeping him upright. By the time he came back to some kind of coherency, he was sitting up on the edge of his bed and Folke had him by the shoulders. Or perhaps _sitting up_ was too broad a term as it felt like if the mage let go he would topple over.

Blinking, he looked around his room for a moment before starting to say, “How…?”

Folke shook his head as he interrupted, “You pretty much passed out on us after the first step down. I don’t think you quite realized the point that you pushed yourself to, _isha’len_.” He then carefully braced one hand against Cullen’s shoulder as he reached with the other towards the half-tied ties on his tunic. “It’s not the sort of thing you can do in your situation.”

“No,” replied Cullen, feeling like his tongue was abruptly thick in his mouth, “no, I knew.”

“You nughumping _fool_ ,” spat the mage immediately, his temporarily free hand coming back to rest on his shoulder. Folke shook him slightly as he leaned down to lock eyes with him, his expression both shocked and appalled as he asked, “Don’t you know the risks of that? The side effects?”

Cold anger flared up Cullen’s spine and he managed a snarl as he spat, “How the _fuck_ am I supposed to know about the side effects, Folke? I know descriptors of how withdrawal goes and how it feels from both experience and the _one_ healer that the Gallows still had but other than that I have _nothing_ .” Staring hard at the older man, he continued, “You think the Chantry tells us what happens after? You think those _sons of bitche_ s let us know what we will go through? All we know half the time is that our memory will start to go and that they’ll take us out of service when that happens. The only reason I know anything more is because I was at Greenfell! I saw it! Those poor fucking bastards, so lost in their pasts that they don’t even know what _day or year_ it was!”

He wanted to wrench away from the man’s touch out of anger but he didn’t have the _strength_.

“All I got that I didn’t know was that it coming out of my system would make me run hotter than normal. Other than that I already knew everything from going through it temporarily before. That and the choice could _kill me._ So what more do you fucking want me to say?”

Cullen wanted to plow on that sometimes pushing through was the only thing that kept him going, that kept him from pulling that damned box out of his desk. That kept him from taking that _one more sip, just one more_ that his body wanted. Driving himself to exhaustion was often the _only_ way to keep it at bay.

But he didn’t.

Instead he just stared at Folke, breathing a little hard after his outburst, as the hedge mage’s expression softened. The other man’s fingers clenched slightly on his shoulders and then Folke let out a breath, bowing his head.

“Maker, we cocked this up,” muttered the mage. Then Folke straightened up and said, “I assumed you knew the risks when I realized that you showed the signs of stopping. Told Gil and some of the other healers the same. As long as you had served, high as you served, there was no way you couldn’t know.”

“We’re definitely going to sit down and have a talk,” he continued. Folke then reached for the ties on Cullen’s tunic again. “Though first you need to get some sort of food in you as I’m certain you haven’t eaten given your weakness and then sleep.”

Unable to help the flinch in response to the comment about food - which just made the mage scowl since it confirmed the question - Cullen softly began, “Folke, I…”

“Maker help me, _isha’len_ , if you attempt to apologize for that little outburst, I will beat your ass up and down your precious training yard once you’re capable of defending yourself.”

Blinking at the man, he managed a chuckle despite the slight guilt bearing down on him at yelling at the man. Angry as he was at the question, Folke hadn't deserved that sort of outburst. “Is that so?” he asked.

Folke tilted his head to the side and smiled. “You think I can’t, son? I’m a fair hand with a sword.”

Cullen just smiled and shrugged before he sobered once more. Tilting his head, he weakly lifted his hands from where they hung limp at his sides to rest on the bed and held them palm up. “May I apologize for unjustly taking out my anger on you?” he asked.

“No,” replied the mage coldly, “and I’ll tell you _why_ . Because it’s better for you to yell at _me_ and get that rage out at a safe target than to have you aiming it at someone who’s _not_ a safe target. And believe me, I’ve been yelled at by a few templars in my life.”

That drew his eyes to the scar on Folke’s cheek and the mage grinned wryly while shrugging. “That was less yelling,” he said, “and more automatic smiting. All the yelling was Meryell.”

Cullen snorted at that and managed a smile as he commented, “I don't doubt that. She's fierce.”

“That's one word for my girl,” the other man commented with a smile. They then both looked over at the yawning space where the second floor fell away at the sound of one of the tower doors opening. When the lock slid home, Folke smiled. “Ah. That'd be one of the lads with food.”

“Folke?” called a female voice from below and as the mage frowned, Cullen commented, “That doesn't sound like a _lad_ , Folke.”

“Keep your teeth together, _isha’len_ ,” growled the mage. He then called out, “Evune, love, we're up here. I told Rylen to send for one of the lads to come help me.”

There was a soft _ah_ in response and then nothing before the nearly inaudible whisper of feet upon the ladder. A hand bearing a tray crested the edge of the floor first, holding a steaming bowl, a shallow cup of something dark and equally hot, and what looked like a collection of herbs. Then Cullen saw a head with long auburn hair piled up in that messy but controlled way women somehow managed and pointed ears appear immediately after. The elven woman smiled, which made him register the copper colored lines tattooed on her face, as she finished climbing up and bent to retrieve the tray with one hand. As she calmly walked around them to set it down on his bedside table, Cullen noticed that she let her free hand trail along Folke's back in an affectionate way.

Even in his pain-addled state, he remembered Meryell once mentioning that her father and an elven woman in the company shared beds on occasion in the most casual of ways. This then must be her.

Evune turned after she sat down the tray to say, “Your pet templar _did_ send down for a lad but after his runner explained what it was about to the Captain, he decided to send someone who might actually help you.”

As Folke frowned, Cullen said quietly, “Arnald knows?”

The elven woman turned her gaze to him and nodded solemnly. “He respects your desire to keep it secret. Those of us that know what it is templars face, that have aided our own and recognize the signs, do the same. Your secrets are our secrets, Commander, and we do not surrender secrets.”

For a moment he just blinked at her, unable to comprehend what to say in response, then Folke grumbled, “Rylen is _not_ a pet, love.”

“ _Ma’halla_ , I tease. I know how you are,” replied Evune with a gentle smile. She then stepped forward and leaned in to kiss his cheek as she added, “Now, I have brought a simple broth, some of your headache tea, and a bough of your burned woman’s laurel.”

“Good. Come now, _isha’len_ , let's get that shirt off of you.”

Cullen stiffened and stared at the mage, feeling a blush creep up the back of his neck. “Folke,” he said quietly, “I'm beginning to think you _want_ to see me naked.”

At that the older man just laughed, tipping his head back in a starkly familiar way. It hit him a moment later that Meryell laughed in the same way when something caught her off guard, drawing a full and honest laugh out of her. Suddenly he was torn: on the one hand he wanted her back so he could touch her, could kiss her, could simply sit and speak with her into the long hours of the night...yet he didn't want her to see what he'd fallen to. She didn't need dealing with him and his issues on top of the issues of the Inquisition.

Especially not after having to deal with the situation and feelings that asshole Camden had spawned before she'd left for Crestwood.

“Oh, darling,” drawled Folke as he abruptly moved a hand to gently pat Cullen's cheek. “You're adorable and I do appreciate such a _fine form_ , but you aren't my type at all. _Now_...shirt off then food and bed. You can keep your trousers this time, I promise.”

As Cullen involuntarily blushed at the innuendo the man had put into the last sentence, Evune theatrically fanned a hand at her face. “Oh my,” she gasped, her tone a high-pitched mockery of. “Such scandal! Our own Folke and the Commander!”

“Maker's breath,” he muttered, closing his eyes briefly. “You two are terrible.”

“It's why we work together so well,” commented the mage with a laugh. Then he made a gesture towards Evune and the elf stepped closer so she could lean down to grab the loose fabric of Cullen's tunic. He felt on fire with embarrassment as the pair of them divested of him his shirt and it didn't help when the woman whistled.

Folke good naturedly slapped Evune on the thigh in response and she giggled before turning away, moving back across the room towards the tray. “I swear,” he muttered under his breath, “she acts younger than she is sometimes.” Without waiting for a comment, he clapped his hands together and said, “So...think you can feed yourself or shall I embarrass you and feed you like a child?”

“I think I can manage,” Cullen replied uneasily. The situation was embarrassing enough without the man doing the latter.

“Suit yourself, I'm easy.”

As soon as the mage moved to step away, however, it was revealed that Cullen was not as steady as he felt. Thankfully Folke didn’t take up his offer of embarrassing him and instead helped him move up the bed so he could lean against the headboard. As he was handed the soup, Cullen saw that Evune had moved the brazier back into the middle of the floor from where he normally shifted it off to the side during the day and was lighting what looked like the herbs she’d brought inside of it.

She caught his gaze as she looked up, smiling before she blew gently into it again. “ _Radladara_ ,” she explained. “Your burned woman’s laurel. We burned it in my clan for those who were suffering all sorts of pains, so perhaps it will ease some of yours, Commander.”

“Thank you,” replied Cullen after a moment. He then awkwardly shifted in place, looking down at the bowl in his hands, before he softly said, “Neither of you have to stay here. I’ve dealt with this on my own for months…” As Folke abruptly sat down on the edge of the bed, his voice trailed off and he looked up to meet the man’s eyes.

“ _Isha’len_ ,” the mage said gently, “we are not here simply because we must be. We are here because we care for your health, and not merely for the sake of Meryell or the Inquisition. There will be no accusations and no guilt thrust about. You do _not_ have to do this on your own. Not unless you choose to.”

For a moment all Cullen could do was stare at the man, a sudden lump in his throat. He’d been facing quitting on his own for the most part, other than the occasional (and rare) check-in with Cassandra and more recently the comfort of Meryell’s presence. Both women had respected his decision to do so, though Meryell often did small things to try and help him when she could.

No one, however, had come out and told him that he didn’t have to fight alone. Silently said it, yes, but directly...no one had done that. Not since he’d left home.

Blinking his eyes several times to fight back the sudden moisture that realization had brought, he nodded and looked back down into the bowl. “Thank you,” he murmured before picked up the spoon in a shaking hand, moving it slowly up to his mouth in a move that he hoped the older man would read as the end to the conversation he wanted it to be. Folke seemed to indeed sense that as he patted Cullen’s left leg before standing up to walk over and have a quiet conversation with Evune.

He turned his attention onto the broth then, which was somewhat weak in flavor, but it didn’t make his stomach roil like the smell of food had earlier. Half of it was gone before he began to feel tiredness creeping in on him, causing the bowl to droop into his lap. Suddenly Evune was there, scooping it up out of his hands, and then Folke was proffering the somewhat cooler cup of tea under his nose.

“Come on, lad,” urged the older man gently. “Let’s get a little bit of this in you to try and help your head and then you can sleep.”

Cullen wrinkled his nose slightly but obliged the mage, opening his mouth since he was too tired now to even think about lifting his arms. Then it seemed like a blink of an eye and he was lying down on his side, one arm curled underneath his head and pillow with his blankets tucked firmly about him. He frowned, more than a little confused as to what had happened, then heard voices softly whispering from the end of the bed.

“You are staying with him, _‘ma’halla?_ ”

“Poppet claimed him, so that makes him as good as mine too, love. So I’ll stay, yes.” He then heard Folke sigh before he went on, “I don’t think there’ll be a problem tonight but we have to have a talk about this. Let Gil know the full story of what happened that I told you and make certain to note that he’s doing this on little knowledge. Add in a curse about the Chantry being colossal fuckers for me.”

Evune chuckled, a small musical sound. “I will do as you ask. But…”

“But?” pressed Folke.

There was silence for a moment except for the sound of the shifting boards of his floor before Cullen heard her ask, “You will be safe alone? I remember there have been the templars of ours who have smited you while they are going through this.”

The mage scoffed lightly in reply before saying, “Templars who still mostly _had_ lyrium in their system, darling. Cullen’s been without for long enough that I’m certain there’s not anything like that he could do. Don’t worry yourself anyway, I know how to work through a smite.”

“It is not the smite I fear, _‘ma’halla._ ”

“I don’t think he has magebane hiding under his bed either, Evune. And he wouldn’t use it on me. I trust him. You think I would have continued letting him anywhere near Meryell if I did anything less?”

A mage?  _ Trust him? _

He wasn't quite certain what to think of that.

Cullen managed a small smile as the woman scoffed, saying, “You think your _da’assan_ would have listened to you? Especially when she has found a _bor’assan_?”

“I will tell her when she returns that you find the Commander to be the bow to her arrow,” jibed Folke.

“I will tell her _myself_ ,” replied Evune as he tried to comprehend how he exactly was a bow to an arrow. He didn’t send Meryell anywhere, unless one counting giving her advice at the war table as doing so. Or perhaps she meant it as only being a pair?

An arrow was little use without a bow and so was a bow without an arrow. Still dangerous in the hands of the skilled but never so dangerous as they were together.

Cullen was still trying to figure it out when Evune said, “ _On nydha, ‘ma’halla._ Watch well.”

“ _On nydha_ , love,” replied Folke quietly.

As the woman slowly descended the stairs, he felt the bed dip at the end with weight before the older man sighed heavily. Cullen then felt a hand pat his shin before the mage called out, “Go back to sleep, _isha’len_. You need it.”

He was not only surprised that Folke had realized he was awake but that when he said _sleep_ it was as if a spell had been cast over him. Cullen closed his eyes again as the bone deep exhaustion dragged him down and, as he did, swore that he felt a hand gently pat his shoulder and a voice say something soothing in his ear.

Whatever it said, however, was lost to the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> **  
> Elven/Elvhen Translations  
>   
> 
> ‘Ma’halla - my halla, an endearment for a close friend  
> Radladara - green healing (rad = green, emerald, ladara = to heal)  
> bor’assan - bow
> 
>  
> 
> Random bit of numbers. I decided to randomly bring up the entire work that's posted and see how many particular variations of the main curses there are so far (as of this chapter). Not counting things like knife-ear.
> 
> Fuck >> 494  
> Shit >> 177  
> Damn >> 115  
> Ass >> 60  
> Cock >> 35  
> Piss >> 26  
> Bitch >> 24  
> Bloody >> 14  
> Sod >> 11  
> Cunt >> 9  
> Prick >> 5  
> Twat >> 4  
> Tits >> 4  
> Bugger >> 3  
> Dick >> 2  
> Whore >> 1  
>   
> Maker's ... >> out of 36, 15 are Maker's Breath, the other 21 are Maker's Various Naughty Bits  
> Andraste's ... >> all 12 are Andraste's Various Naughty Bits  
> Maferath's ... >> 1
> 
> So - roughly - 1,118.


	34. “You don't leave people to die. Not if you can help it.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan to take Caer Bronach is made, executed, and succeeds. Then they find out the Mayor of Crestwood told at least one lie to them, so what else might not have been the whole truth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's 1AM, I'm going to go ahead and give you guys 34.

“So,” drawled Meryell as she dropped their map down on the flat rocks in the middle of their temporary camp, “we’ve got to get to the dam in order to access the controls to drain this stupid lake.” Leaning forward, she planted a smaller rock on the spot that she’d marked as Caer Bronach after getting one of the men in Crestwood village to give her its location. “And then we’ve got  _ this bitch _ .”

“Bitch?” repeated Dorian as he settled to her left on another rock, a bowl full of their dinner steaming in his hands. “Now, now, that’s no way to talk about a lady.”

Snorting, she replied, “It is about _this_ _lady_.”

Sighing, he asked, “And why is that, darling?”

Meryell just grinned impishly at him and replied, “Because it’s going to be an utter bitch of a job to convince her to open her legs to us and let us in.” There was immediately the clatter and slight thud of the ladle they were using to scoop their stew out of their small travel pot and she turned towards the fire that her back was to. Cassandra was red faced as she picked the utensil from the ground and looked unamused, while Varric was half leaned over and choking on laughter.

Dorian just tutted in response but still smiled as he said, “That was crude, even for you, darling.”

“I spent the last half of childhood between a gang and a mercenary company and all of my adulthood up until now in the latter,” she noted with a casual shrug. “That’s actually not the rudest thing I could conceivably come up with.”

“Maker preserve us,” muttered Cassandra. She then straightened and glared as she asked, “If you wouldn’t mind ceasing such...colorful commentary...until after we’ve gotten dinner?”

“Only so as you don’t knock over the pot out of shock as well, Cass.”

The Seeker made that exasperated noise of hers in response before quickly cleaning off the ladle with water from her waterskin and finishing getting her dinner. By then Varric had recovered enough to do the same - though he was still shaking his head and grinning - and both of them joined her and Dorian around the rock.

“So,” began the dwarf as he sat down on the ground, “this lady…”

Snorting, Meryell immediately replied, “Is full of bandits. I went poking around before we left the village for information and managed to find out that they’ve done some shady shit around here. Oh, and they call themselves the Highwaymen, which is literally the least fucking original name I've ever heard in my life.”

Dorian shook his head and muttered, “Such incompetence in naming themselves obviously can't be allowed to stand.” Meryell flicked a potato from her stew at him in response to that, which he just laughed and ducked away from while scolding, “My  _ clothes _ , darling!”

Cassandra coughed loudly to get their attention back to the matter at hand and Meryell pointed at Dorian before she turned back to the map. He stuck out his tongue at her in response, to which Varric laughed before saying, “ _ Children _ , are mommy and daddy going to have to whip you back into line?”

The Seeker’s horrified look in response to that was  _ perfection _ .

Grinning at Varric, Meryell leaned forward to tap her finger on their map in the general location of where they were on the Old Market Road. “No, Da,” she replied, putting a bit more of an inflection on her original Ferelden accent, “we’ll behave.”

“Good,” he said with a chuckle. Then Varric scooted forward on the rock he’d claimed and balanced his bowl in one hand while gesturing with the other towards the map. “So...you want to finish relating about the lady for us, sweetheart?”

“Right. This fucking  _ lady _ . She’s important Ferelden history, so let’s try to not bang her up too much when we do get inside.”

Cassandra coughed before asking, “Do we  _ have  _ a plan for getting inside?”

Meryell shook her head as she leaned back to scoop a spoonful of the stew into her mouth, answering, “Not yet. I figure we should probably set up camp here since we’ve got a nice fucking view of the keep with shelter from this tree and rock, plus we can keep an eye on the lake rift from here. Plus, it’ll give Varric and I time to do some snooping around and see what the best way in is. And if we need reinforcements for this shit.”

“Reinforcements from where exactly?” asked Dorian. “There weren’t all that many soldiers at camp.”

“Our forces are scattered throughout the region,” Cassandra explained as she leaned forward. “If I recall correctly from our briefing, there is another camp to our east at Three Trout Farm. All of our soldiers and scouts are not always in camp as well, so there are more here than you might believe, Dorian.”

The mage blinked then inclined his head towards the woman with a murmured, “I will bow to your better voice of experience, sweet Cassandra.”

Scoffing in response (which was to try and cover the blush in her cheeks that Meryell damn well saw), the Seeker said, “It might be a better course of action for one to scout the keep and one of us to make our way over to Three Trout while the other two remain here.”

Shaking her head, Meryell argued, “Back to the village if we go that route. I told Harding before we left camp to pick two of her soldiers who were worth a damn at being sneaky to dress down and set up there as a drop off point. We at least know the road back to Crestwood and those two are specifically there for the purpose of getting word back to North Gate and on to Skyhold.”

Varric let out a low whistle and asked, “That a Fang tactic, Swears?”

“One of the standards for anyone out on a job, though we usually hired out the work ahead of time,” she replied with a casual shrug, not afraid to share details about the company’s organization with them. They weren’t going to betray their workings.

Cassandra frowned slightly before saying, “That first letter you were going to send out...it was going to such a contact?”

Meryell grimaced slightly because that letter was still a bit of a sore point. She didn’t regret her action one bit because back then she still hadn’t trusted anyone all that much, though Varric and Cullen got more for being civil. However, she was aware that she probably could have handled the early days with the Inquisition better than she had. The past was the past, though, and couldn’t be changed.

Nodding, she answered, “There was. We also had a contact at the Conclave before it went to shit. Drop points in Jader, Highever, and Amaranthine if I ended up having to take a coastal route home on the way out. Anyway!”

With a shake of her head, Meryell continued, “Given what I heard of this group from the villagers, we probably want to go with the latter plan. Though the fuckers could have played them for fools and be a smaller group than they think. But…”

“Keep like that,” murmured Varric, his eyes focused over the large rock towards the distant towers half shrouded by Crestwood’s almost ever present mist, “it holds a lot of people. And a region plagued like this one spawns a lot of bad folk looking to make a bit of quick coin.”

“I say,” piped Dorian, “that we do the sensible thing and get some soldiers to help us take our dear lady on the hill. Rather like that plan of yours in Redcliffe: distract with one group so the other group can slide in from the back to strike the killing blow.” He then laughed as he spooned up a bit of his stew. “Hopefully it’ll be without a trip into the future this time.”

“Maferath’s rotten balls, don’t even joke about that happening again,” scolded Meryell, her eyes narrowed slightly. As he lifted a hand in a sudden sympathetic gesture, she waved him off. “I’m not fucking  _ glass _ , Dorian.”

The mage frowned, his lips pursed beneath his mustache, before he leaned forward and murmured, “Of course not, darling, but we will not pretend that it wasn’t terrible. Let me give a little comfort to my friend since I was fool enough to bring it back up?”

Sighing, she grumbled, “Fine, you sod.” As his hand stretched out to rest on her shoulder, Meryell let go of her spoon to reach up with her left hand to lay it over his. His fingers squeezed slightly and she made the gesture in return while turning to smile at him.

“Forgive me?” he asked quietly.

“‘Course,” she answered shortly.

Dorian smiled then pulled away, turning back to his food, and Meryell looked at the others.

“Right. So who's riding back and who's staying here?”

Cassandra let out a breath and said, “I will ride back. I do not think even a bandit would be fool enough to attack a Seeker.”

“You'd be surprised,” commented Varric. “Most bandits don't do a lot of higher thinking.”

“Then I shall take my chances, Varric.”

The dwarf just shrugged before saying, “Sparkler and I can keep watch here while you go take a look around, Swears. I'm pretty sure your vision in the dark is better than mine.”

“So, it's settled then!” Dorian swept out a hand to encompass their camp as he added, “By the time you two get back, we'll have a veritable palace waiting for you.”

Laughing Meryell finished off the last of her stew and stood up as she said, “We'll just have to tear it all fucking down right after that, Dorian.”

Sniffing theatrically, the mage huffed and turned away from her. “Fine! We'll see if I attempt to give you something pretty ever again.”

Shaking her head, she leaned over to kiss his cheek as she purred, “I'm not into pretty things anyway, love.” With that Meryell straightened and said in a louder tone, “I'm going to wash this up then get a start on this shit. Be safe on the road, Cass.”

“Maker watch over you, Meryell,” replied the older woman solemnly while Dorian flashed a sly smile.

“If you don't like pretty things, darling,” he called after her as she carefully made her way down towards the lake so as not to be seen, “may I have your Commander?”

“Don't like him ‘cause he's pretty, Dorian!” she called back. Turning, she flashed him a broad smile and a wink. “I like him for all the wicked things his tongue does.”

Meryell turned back towards her destination with a laugh as she heard the mage let out a hoot of laughter and Varric say, “Why, Seeker, you're turning an  _ awful _ shade of crimson. Something you ate?”

As she reached the water and dunked her bowl and spoon in to rinse them out, she lifted her eyes to regard the shadowy silhouette of the keep against the slowly darkening sky.  _ You _ , she thought grimly as she stood back up,  _ you're going to be mine, you big bitch. And we're going to murder every bloody bastard that calls you home right now for hurting these people. _

* * *

Two weeks and three days later, with the Inquisition flag flying atop the keep and bandit blood still being scrubbed out of the stones, Meryell stood staring furiously at the wheel that controlled the outflow for the dam.

It was funny how quickly she could go from being amused by the rather heavy pawing session they'd interrupted between those two youths to cold outrage.

She clenched her left fist and felt the Mark flare in response, green light glowing through her leather half-gloves. Pain lanced up her arm in immediate response, same as it always did when it activated. Drowning it out had become second nature now with how many rifts she'd closed since falling into the piss pot that was everything after the Breach.

In that moment, however, she needed the pain as a distraction to keep herself from descending into a full on rage.

“He  _ lied _ ,” she snarled aloud.

“What's that, Swears?” asked Varric from the main part of the tavern. Then Meryell heard his footfalls right behind her and he inhaled a short breath before muttering, “Well  _ shit _ .”

Cassandra entered the room a moment later, her expression as stormy as a thundercloud as she moved past them into the room. She made a half circuit before turning back to face them as she said icily, “This looks like it has taken no damage. Certainly none from darkspawn.”

Varric huffed a breath before saying, “Darkspawn have a tendency of leaving shit in pieces. So, sweetheart, now what?”

Meryell stared hard at the wheel, not answering the question at first. She barely even registered it being asked, to be honest.

No, her mind was on the dead. On those who had died in Old Crestwood during the Blight. Who had drowned when the supposed darkspawn had destroyed the controls of the dam.

What was the real story?

What had happened?

_ Why _ had those people died?

Finally able to unhinge her jaw, she answered in a far calmer voice than she felt, “We drain the fucking lake. There's still a rift to close.”

“And the Mayor?” asked Dorian as he entered the room.

Stepping forward to lay her hands on the wheel, Meryell replied, “He'll answer my questions. Or he won't like the consequences.”

“Meryell,” spoke up Cassandra, looking concerned now. “Are you…?”

“You don't  _ leave _ people to die,” she spat venomously. Somehow old anger and pain crept into her voice and she fought to shut it down, to keep the emotions inside. It was  _ choking _ , remembering how it had felt to think that there was no help coming, that she was next, that  _ death _ was all there was. “Not if you can help it.”

“Swears,” began Varric but Meryell cut him off with a quick slash of her hand through the air 

“We  _ drain it _ . We find out what happened to these people. And then we bring the sorry fuckers that were involved to justice.”

Dorian’s voice was calm from behind her as he said soothingly, “Of course, darling. We will find them.”

“We will,” echoed Cassandra with all the surety of good steel in her tone.

Meryell looked around at all of them, a little overwhelmed at their responses, before she nodded firmly. Taking one hand off the wheel to gesture at it, she said, “Let's get this done then.”


	35. “Andraste’s flaming tits, that's rank.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crestwood continues to be an annoying shitfest as Meryell sets Charter to hunting down the Mayor on suspicion of what he's done before setting out to solve the problem of the rift in the lake. Along the way she meets a spirit that reminds of her own issues, gets injured, and meets Alistair in far less circumstances than she'd wanted.

Meryell frowned at Charter for a long moment before saying, “You think something’s happened to our man?”

The other elf nodded slightly before she replied, “I wasn’t worried about it when we were transferred, but all of the agents and scouts under me were sent orders about the move. He should rightly have been here by now.”

“Hmm.” Turning to her right, Meryell laid a hand on the map of the area that Charter had laid out over the table in the room she’d taken as her office in the keep. She scanned it for a moment then tapped the notation for Three Trout camp, which was where she knew the other elf had been working from previously in the region. “He left from Three Trout? Or from when you were located at North Gate weeks back?”

“North Gate,” replied Charter, moving up to stand next to her. “Why do you ask?”

“Trying to get a grasp of things,” muttered Meryell. She reached across the map to tap a finger on North Gate and asked, “Did he know about the move from here?”

“Yes.”

Frowning, she inquired, “What was his mission?” When there wasn’t an immediate response, Meryell turned to Charter and found the woman pressing her lips together into a white line. “Charter?”

“Inquisitor…”

Oh, she knew that tone. That _I can’t really tell you shit_ tone of voice.

“So fucking help me,” she growled under her breath, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling before lifting a hand to slam it down on the table surface. To her credit Charter didn’t twitch and that showed exactly why she was one of the Nightingale’s main eyes and ears. “I don’t know what orders you get from Leliana, Charter, and I think it’s a load of nugshit that you’re about to make me pull fucking _rank_ on you,” snarled Meryell. “It’s no skin off my tits if you tell me or not because I _will_ find out.”

She then leaned forward, getting in the other elf’s face and spat, “But every damned minute you _dance_ around the matter is _one fucking more_ where we don’t know where our man is. Now what was he investigating?”

Charter blinked several times (but didn’t move an inch otherwise) before she sighed and only then did Meryell move back out of the other woman’s space. “Officially,” she explained, “he was gathering information about a lead we could press on an Orlesian noble.”

Meryell hissed, “ _Fucking_ _el'u’verelan_ ,” before gesturing for her to continue with an added, “And the _real_ story?”

“A possible traitor.”

“Possible?”

“He was getting the proof.”

Scowling, Meryell spat, “ _Fuck_. Alright.”

Turning to lean on the table and stare down at the map for a moment, she asked, “I’m assuming you lot have dead drops in places all around the region? Just in case someone can’t get their ass back to camp?” When she didn’t get an immediate reply, she turned to look at Charter and found the other elf looking at her in surprise. Snorting, she asked, “You not get the memo that I’m a _thief_?”

“Don’t you mean _was_?”

Meryell just grinned wickedly at her and Charter laughed before saying, “Of course. You keep in practice.”

“A thief who doesn’t keep in practice is a dead thief the next time they’re on a job. So...dead drops.”

Nodding, Charter stepped back into place next to her and quickly pointed out several places on the map. None of which were marked, of course, just in case the map fell into enemy hands. It was a little amusing how often she found that certain Fang tactics were very similar to Inquisition ones. “If he used one,” she then said, tapping near the bottom of the map just southeast of Three Trout, “it was likely this one. It’s buried deep within a set of rocks on a small hill close to the water.”

Absently Meryell noted that it was practically directly south of the directions Hawke had given them to the cave her Warden was supposedly hiding in.

“We’ll be heading that way soon,” she commented idly. “That mother fuck of rift that was in the lake comes first so it stops bringing the dead back. So, leave us that dead drop and the whole area south and east of Three Trout.”

“Done,” said Charter with a sharp nod. She then tapped her fingers on the edge of the map and added, “I’ll send some of my men to check on the other drops. My quietest.”

“No,” hissed Meryell, cold rage abruptly taking over her again. She reached out to tap a finger on the village of Crestwood and growled, “I think I have a different job for your _quietest_.”

The other elf arched her eyebrows, looking honestly surprised at the anger. After a moment she said quietly, “You want the Mayor.”

“I want him bloody _yesterday_ ,” Meryell spat back. “We don't know the full score of his crimes yet as there's been no news from the village. He lied to us though...and I can put pieces together.”

Charter turned to give her a long look before she stepped back and lifted a closed hand up over her heart in a salute, her head dipping forward. “We will find him, Inquisitor,” she said in a firm tone and Meryell believed her by the sheer gleam in her eyes alone.

The _el'u’verelan_ had a _damned_ good spy in this one.

“Alive, Charter.”

“How else can he face justice?” asked the other elf with a smirk before she turned and opened the door to leave the room, shouting names as she walked out into the main part of the keep. Meryell shook her head after she was gone and turned back to the map, staring down at it for a long moment. At least until she heard footsteps from behind her and automatically started to reach for the dagger that rode across her hips.

“Just me, sweetheart,” Varric noted quietly and she relaxed, turning her head to smile at him. He just grinned then jerked his head in the direction Charter had gone. “You sounded mighty Inquisitorial in there.”

Meryell blinked then asked, “Were you listening at the door?”

The dwarf just whistled innocently before he jerked his head slightly towards the western wall of the room, saying airily, “There _might_ be a decent crack in the corner of this wall that hasn’t been found yet. Right at ear level for a short person sitting on a crate to listen to.”

Snorting at his very broad way of answering her question, she said, “Let’s be sure to inform someone about that before we leave. You get to do the honors since you found it.”

Varric chuckled in response before saying, “I'll be sure to point it out to Charter since it's her office.”

“Good,” she replied. Then Meryell looked back at the map and asked quietly, “You really think I'm doing well, Varric?”

“Swears, I listen to a lot of people in the tavern and when they come through the hall. The nobles may not always have nice things to say but that's them. Every actual serving member of the Inquisition that I've overheard speak of nothing but good things.” He leaned an arm on the table then, asking, “You think you're not?”

Shrugging, she replied, “I don't _know_. I've never led anything before really. I mean, small parties of us Fangs on missions that required more hands, sure.” Shaking her head, Meryell went on, “But this isn't a singular fucking mission, Varric.”

“Look here,” he said, reaching out to cover her hand with his. Varric then lifted his other hand to waggle a finger in her face as he asked, “Are you going to listen or am I going to have to scold you like a child?”

Chuckling, she replied, “I'm listening, Da.”

His response was to immediately swipe at her shoulder before he rested his hand there. “Now look,” Varric began, “you know you're not doing any of this on your own. You've got all of us. Me, Curly, Ruffles, Seeker...the whole lot. We're here to help you no matter what title you have. We're here for Meryell who just so happens to _be_ Inquisitor, not the Inquisitor Meryell.”

“And if I start letting being in charge get to my head?” she asked with a smile.

“I think between all of us we can knock sense back into you if that happens. We'll even let Curly kiss the bruise better later.”

Meryell snorted then said, “I'm glad you're here to call me on my bullshit, Varric.

He laughed in reply before noting, “As Hawke would say, bullshit is my speciality. Now...what do you say we go figure out what happened to these folks and close this rift?”

“I'm think that sounds like a damned good plan.”

* * *

“Andraste’s flaming tits, that's rank,” muttered Meryell as they made their way down into the formerly watery ruins of Old Crestwood. It smelled like a mix of mildew and death from the potent mixture of rotting wood, dead water plants, and the corpses of the drowned.

They'd already marked one set of bodies inside the house furthest up the hill, Meryell carefully drawing a simplistic version of the Inquisition’s eye with a piece of white chalk she'd snitched from one of the merchants while helping him move into Caer Bronach. Once they got back to the village, she'd let someone know that they'd marked the bodies. Probably that Chantry Sister they'd briefly talked to.

“Rank,” commented Dorian, “is far from the word I would use to describe that smell, darling. I'm really not certain my nostrils will ever recover.”

“Breathe through your mouth,” growled Cassandra from where she was walking ahead of them.

“Sound advice, dear See...oh.”

Meryell turned to look at him and frowned at the odd look on his face. “Dorian?”

“Something wrong, Sparkler?” asked Varric from behind them.

The mage frowned deeply before he replied, “It may be nothing but there is an odd feeling about. Like a piece of the Veil come away.”

“Or perhaps it is a demon,” commented Cassandra. As they all turned to look at her, she pointed at the ruin of a house ahead of them and it's one glowing red occupant.

Varric whistled lowly before saying, “No demon like I've ever seen, Seeker. We certain it's dangerous?”

“If I've learned anything from overhearing _baba_ and the other mages,” commented Meryell before the older woman could reply, “even the most benign spirits can turn dangerous.”

“Is that an argument _against_ greeting our spectral friend?” asked Dorian.

Shaking her head, she replied, “Fuck no. I want to know what a spirit is doing floating around here. You usually don't _get_ spirits in the real world; they tend to not come here unless forced.”

Cassandra’s frown was dark and deep, showing her feeling about the situation, but she nodded her head slowly. “Very well,” she said, “we will...greet...this spirit. I _will_ strike it down if it attempts anything.”

“We expect nothing less,” muttered Varric and Meryell smacked her hand against his shoulder. The dwarf shook his head before saying at a normal volume, “We thank you for protecting us from the possible demon seeking to eat our faces. Better, Swears?”

“Two points out of five for effort,” she replied with a laugh as Cassandra scowled. Meryell then jerked her chin forward and added, “Let's go see what it wants.”

It turned out that trying to figure out what a random spirit wanted while Cassandra practically _loomed_ behind her was just the sort of fucked up situation that put Meryell on edge.

“You!” exploded the spirit in its echoey voice, eerily reminiscent of the effect red lyrium had had on Varric and Cassandra in that terrible future. “I _order_ you to tell me why nothing here heeds my commands.”

Glancing cautiously over at Dorian, who just shrugged in response, she turned back to the spirit and asked, “How about this...you answer me first whether you’re spirit or demon.”

“Demon?” Given the offended tone of voice, she got the impression that this one fell solidly into the former category. It then seemed to lift its...chin (or the equivalent thereof)...proudly as it said, “I am called to higher things.”

Meryell frowned at that and asked, “Then what the fuck _are_ you? Everything I know of spirits says that they embody certain things. Justice, compassion, knowledge…”

The spirit scoffed, “I am _more_ than such things. I _am_ Command.”

“And more than slightly pompous,” muttered Varric, making Dorian snort to cover an obvious laugh.

As she rolled her eyes at the pair of them, the spirit asked, “What of you? I felt your coming. There is something alike in us.” It floated forward then and she took a wary step back, slightly disoriented by its hazy shape and the distinct lack of any facial features. “Yet you fight it. War with it. Fear it. Why?”

 _It’s like Cole_ , Meryell realized dazedly. _It senses things within us._ She wondered too if this was what he had looked like before he had pressed himself into human form, before spirit had turned into flesh.

“I command, yes,” she replied softly, “but I do not want to.”

“You are not weak,” noted the spirit, its tone slightly confused.

Shaking her head, Meryell said, “No, no, I’m not weak, Command. Mortals are...different...from spirits. Perhaps that’s the issue.”

“Perhaps.”

Grateful that that topic was waylaid - she certainly didn’t want to discuss her lingering insecurities around her position with a random spirit - she turned her head to look at Cassandra with one eye. “Dangerous?” she asked.

“As you said,” replied the woman in a slightly clipped tone, “even benign spirits can turn dangerous. There is always the chance for harmless spirits to become a demon.”

That made Command scoff. “Nonsense! I am in control of my fate!”

Cassandra blinked before saying, “I was not addressing…” She then trailed off into a frustrated sigh and gestured with one hand for Meryell to go on, shaking her head as she looked away. The way she was now relaxed and not holding the tense stance that she’d settled into upon their approach, made Meryell able to relax as well.

“What is so dreadfully distressing about our world?” asked Dorian towards the spirit.

Command turned itself towards him, scoffing as it said, “I did not order you to speak but I shall answer. This world _ignores_ me! I order the rocks to part, but they do not. I bid the sky draw close, and it stays still! I don't know how you mortals stand it.”

“Practice, dear Command,” replied Dorian with a small smile. “We have little other choice.”

Shaking her head, Meryell asked, “You’re here instead of in the Fade. Why?”

“I will not be denied. I refused to leave until something obeys my orders!”

She blinked then turned to look at Dorian and Varric in turn, who both nodded, then glanced back at Cassandra. The woman’s face was stone at the moment but she gave a bare nod of agreement and Meryell turned back to the spirit. She bowed slightly, just a little dip in the loosest of formal styles, and said, “Then we will help you. We pledge ourselves to your service.”

Command bobbed for a moment and - if it had a face - she thought it might be actually happy. “Excellent!” it exclaimed. “I have but one command: a creature made of rage had the _gall_ to chase me across the lake. Destroy it in my name and be rewarded!”

Cassandra snorted at that and said, “Killing a _demon_ is worthy of us at least.”

Meryell nodded and inclined her head to the spirit. “As you command,” she murmured before turning and leaving the ruins of the house. As soon as they were some distance away, she clapped her hands together as she said, “Folke’ll be fucking _jealous_.”

“For speaking to a spirit?” asked Cassandra. “Does he not do so in the Fade?”

“Not for speaking. It’s a little harder for him than other mages because of how little magic he has but he’s seen plenty of fucking spirits. No, no, I mean knowing there’s a sodding spirit of _Command_. That’s not one that I’ve ever heard of and I’ve eavesdropped on a fucking lot of conversations about spirits.”

“Excitement aside,” piped up Dorian suddenly, “I believe there is another set of bodies in the house to our right.

The whole group instantly sobered at the reminder that they were standing in what equated to a graveyard and Meryell nodded.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s mark it and see what else we can find. Not to mention figure out how we’re still supposed to get to that fucking rift.”

* * *

“ _Fuuuuckiing cunt!_ ” howled Meryell as her left arm spasmed from the effort of closing the rift. She gripped her forearm in her right hand as she felt the connection that always snapped together between Mark and rift _sear_ into her. Then she curled her left hand fingers, snarling wordlessly, and jerked her arm back to break the connection with her whole body.

As soon as it broke, the rift crackled away into nothing and she hit her knees, breathing hard.

“Maker’s breath,” breathed Varric as he rushed over to her, slinging Bianca almost haphazardly over his shoulder. He cautiously took her left hand in his, turning it over to look at where the Mark still glowed through the leather of her half glove, then reached out to touch her cheek with his other hand. “Swears? Sweetheart, you with us?”

Dorian came splashing up onto the center area of the room out of the water that circled the area a moment later, dropping to his knees next to her. “ _Fasta vass_ ,” he cursed as he gestured, drawing meager healing magic to his hands before he pressed them against her weakly bleeding side. “You are a _damned_ fool, darling! If I didn’t care for you so much, I would…” He trailed off into incoherent grumbling after that, his eyes focused as he worked to fix what little he could.

Meryell just smiled dazedly at Varric and nodded. “I’m here,” she replied quietly. “Hurts like a _bitch_.”

“That,” intoned Cassandra with a thunderous growl as she stormed over, “is what happens when you _step away from me_ and decide to take on a demon on your own!”

“I made a decision!” snapped Meryell. “And I didn't even get fucking _hit_ , Cass! It's the damned ass fuck of a wound from the rage demon that tore my back open!”

“Ass fuck?” echoed Varric with a strained laugh.

Cassandra grunted before looking down at Dorian. “Is it?” she asked.

“Y _es_ ,” replied the mage with an angry growl. Meryell then felt the warmth of the healing magic fade as he continued, “I've done what I can. It should hold until we get out of here and can get back to the keep.”

“Hawke,” insisted Meryell. “We go to Hawke.”

“Are you out of your mind?!”

Varric lifted a hand and said quickly, “Hold up, Sparkler, I get where she's at. Hawke’s a healer.”

Cassandra let out a surprised huff of breath before she commented, “I was under the assumption from the description of her magic in your _Tale of the Champion_ that she was more of a primal focus.”

“I also wrote that she let Blondie _go_ , Seeker,” hissed the dwarf, his eyes narrowed slightly. His tone turned bitter as he added, “I don't know if you've noticed but healers tend to be the first ones targeted when templars come around. She already had enough of a target on her back then without me adding another.”

Meryell nodded in agreement before adding, “It's why the healer's tent is always in the center of any Fangs camp.” She then reached out to grasp Varric's shoulder then held out her other hand towards Dorian. As the mage scowled at her, she said firmly, “So long as you can still curse, you'll probably fucking live. That's the rule of any soldier. So you want to help my ass up and we'll go kill two birds with one stone?”

“Very well,” grumbled Dorian before he gently took her upper arm in one hand and laid his other hand against her lower back. Varric shifted on her other side, slowly standing, and together the two of them lifted her up from the ground. As soon as she was standing steadily, the mage commented, “But I will claim no responsibility if you manage to tear that open again.”

Touching his arm, Meryell squeezed it gently before saying, “I love you too, Dorian.”

“Maker save us from your foolishness, darling.”

Smiling, she stepped away from them towards Cassandra and asked, “Lead us out of here, Cass?” The older woman arched an eyebrow in response before she reached out and gave her a firm shove, right in the chest. Meryell staggered slightly as Varric snapped _Seeker!_ but she quickly held out a hand towards him as she retained her balance. As she straightened back up, Meryell stepped up close into Cassandra's space, looking right up at the taller woman as she hissed, “Satisfied?”

Smiling thinly, the warrior replied, “Well enough. Come.”

As she turned away, Dorian called out, “If she starts bleeding out, Cassandra, I hope you know that _you_ are carrying her.”

“One would expect nothing less given that we have but you and Varric with us,” she called over her shoulder before she strode off back into the main part of the ruins. Meryell glanced at the other two, to see that Dorian looked slightly flabbergasted and Varric looked torn between amusement and exasperation, before setting off after the other woman. From behind her after a moment she heard Dorian ask a question.

“Was that...did she just imply that we were weak?”

“I believe she did, Sparkler.”

Chuckling briefly, Meryell pressed a hand against the rents in her leather armor and immediately sobered as that made pain lance across her side. They still had a ways to go to get to the cave that was supposedly the hiding spot for Hawke’s Warden friend.

She had to be careful.

* * *

“Are you aware,” Meryell began weakly as she limped slightly into the entrance of the cave, “that there are two Wardens sniffing around looking for a Warden Alistair who went against their Commander Clarel?”

Hawke jerked her head up from where she sat inside the entrance, half hidden behind a rock, and rushed immediately over to her. There was already energy gathering around the woman’s hands in the calming green of healing magic then she abruptly stopped, her expression twisting into a grimace as it faded away.

“We need to get you out of that armor,” she said. Then the other woman shook her head and replied, “Yes, yes, I’m aware. Bastards nearly came across me a time or two while I was making my way here.”

She then stepped forward, offering Meryell her arm, and said, “Come on, let me help you inside. Where’s everyone else?”

“Why making sure that the Wardens go off in an entirely different direction from us, dear Hawke,” drawled Dorian as he strolled into the cave. He then flicked both hands at them, saying, “Go on now and fix her up. I did what I could but between my lack of skill at healing and her _stubbornness_ , she’s bound to have done something to hurt herself. I’ll bring the rest down when they make it here...assuming there aren’t any forks in this cave?”

Hawke scowled at Meryell, who just shrugged, then turned her head to address Dorian.

“Straight path. Tell Varric to use the Darktown knock when you get to the door. He'll know the one I mean. Oh, and I’ll be sure to give her a good smack for you once I get her all healed up.”

The mage smiled, his moustache twitching, before he replied, “As much as I appreciate the gesture, I refuse the offer. I would rather like to hit her myself...but thank you.”

“No problem. I’m used to helping people hit the troublesome.”

Rolling her eyes, Meryell grumbled, “I’m glad you two are getting along so fucking swimmingly. And I will, to note, willingly take the hits after I’m healed.”

“At least you’re honest, darling,” murmured Dorian with a smile before he turned to face the cave entrance. Hawke smirked at his back for a moment before she tilted her head towards the darkness further into the cave, slowly taking a step forward.

“Come on,” she said gently and Meryell thought that her blue eyes had lost some of that natural flinty look. “It’s not far. We can steal Alistair’s bedroll and probably get you fixed up before they even get down there.”

Smiling, Meryell softly said, “I’m willing to take up that challenge,” as she began moving alongside the other woman. Hawke laughed quietly then they fell to silence as they made their way easily through what was a mostly dark cavern. At least she assumed it was for Hawke; Meryell could see where she was going half-decently. Though, by the time they reached the door at the end, which had a familiar bandit emblem that had been slashed through by a sword, she was definitely feeling the strain of what she’d been putting her body through over the past several hours.

Hawke rapped her knuckles against the door in a distinct pattern before she opened it without much of a preamble. Almost immediately Meryell caught the sound of steel being drawn, her ears twitching at the familiar noise, and she fought not to tense up. Logically she knew it was Hawke’s friend but she’d been taught to never relax when steel was out.

Not unless she knew absolutely the person who held it was a friend.

“It’s me!” called out Hawke as they eased through the door. As the mage closed it behind them, she added, “I’ve got the Inquisitor with me and she’s fucking hurt.”

There was an awkward scuff of boots against the dirt floor of the cave and then a blonde man in the Wardens’ trademark silver and blue came around a rock formation that made an almost wall separating one part of the cave from the other. Though he had his sword out still, the tip was lowered towards the floor, and she took that as a good sign and glanced at his face.

She knew from learning about the Blight in the years after it that Warden Alistair - technically Alistair Theirin according to all rumors and news that had come out of Denerim, though he’d never made any claim to the throne - was five, maybe six years her senior. It had to be the same Alistair; his whole face practically screamed _Theirin bloodline_ (she’d seen King Cailan once or twice before he’d died, enough to recognize the same facial features). The small scar high on his left cheek, persistent stubble, and slightly jumpy nature fit into what she’d expected of a man on the run. What she hadn’t expected were the tight lines of pain at the corners of his eyes and mouth, a thing barely discernible unless one was used to seeing them.

And she’d gotten _very_ used to seeing them on Cullen’s face.

“Maker’s breath,” he muttered before sheathing his sword and moving forward. As he took up the place on her other side, he asked, “What happened?”

“Rage demon,” grunted Meryell in reply as the hand he placed on her right hip came a little too close to the edge of the wound. “Killed it for a spirit.”

“I’m not certain I heard that right.”

Hawke snorted before replying, “I think we both did hear that right. Sounds like a fun story.” She then fell into that same no-nonsense tone that Gil got when she had a patient as she said, “Alright, let’s get this gear off before we start working.” Meryell felt her fingers run gently over her side, just a bare brush against the rents of her armor, and saw the grimace it instantly brought out. “I get the feeling pulling this off is going to reopen this wound. Sparkler’s shit at healing?”

As Alistair arched an eyebrow, mouthing _Sparkler?_ to himself, Meryell answered the question.

“Healing arts tend to get all twitchy when you put them in the same hands that excel at necromancy. At least that's what Dorian says.” Snorting, she added, “He's really just never learned much healing. And everything he has has been recent.”

Hawke snorted at that before she said, “Alistair, keep a hold on her while I get this shit off. I don't think she can stand on her own.”

“Probably fucking not,” admitted Meryell as the two of them rotated around her. Hawke moved to stand in front of her, fingers quickly going to the buckles on her dagger harness, as Alistair moved to stand behind her. He was close but it wasn't an uncomfortable sort of closeness.

She did wish, however, that the hands resting on her hips were those of a different man.

Despite being a mage, Hawke had experience with armor and made very quick work of things. She also gave them respect: carefully bundling her daggers together with their harness and setting them aside and placing her heavy leather vambraces (which she'd started wearing after having her forearm torn open) on top of them. When she started working with the chest piece, though, she scowled.

As Hawke pressed a hand gently against her wounded side, she bid, “Lift your arm as far as you can.”

Meryell did as asked, raising her arm until the skin pulled tightly against her side. As she hissed a _Fuck_ between bared teeth, Hawke tutted and pulled a knife from somewhere on her person. It was only the pain in her side that kept her from immediately trying to knock it out of the woman's hand in instinctual reaction. That and her right arm was her main hand and it wasn't going anywhere fast.

“Sorry, your Inquisitorialness,” apologized the mage, “but this armor has got to go.”

“Needed a new set anyway,” Meryell muttered. “Pretty sure _baba_ and Cullen would argue that I'm more important than the armor.”

“I think the whole Inquisition might argue that.”

Behind her Alistair asked, “Cullen?” When Meryell turned her head to look at him in surprise while Hawke got to work, he added, “Cullen Rutherford?”

“Yes?” she replied warily, a little confused. Alistair and Warden Amell had been the ones to rescue Cullen but he'd told her one night that he hadn't had much interaction with the mage. He'd never made mention of having known the other Warden at all and she didn't think either of them would have gotten the last name of the - in his own words - half-raving madman he'd been then.

“We were trainees together in Denerim, though a year apart,” explained Alistair. “I remembered him after...after everything at the Tower. Never saw him that often and he completed training before I ever got close to being forced into vows but I remembered him.” He trailed off, his brows furrowed slightly, then went on, “I heard a lot of nasty rumors over the years. Killing mages, going on rampages, that sort of thing. Never believed it. Particularly not after I heard someone say he was ruling Kinloch with an iron fist in 9:34.”

Meryell started to open her mouth to state how ridiculous that was since Cullen had been in Kirkwall (and they had two people who could fucking confirm that) when Hawke laughed brightly. “Curly?!” she exploded, stopping in her work to separate the last bit of Meryell's leathers. “Maker, even when I thought he had a stick up his ass, I wouldn't have thought him capable of ruling with an iron fist. He may have been a bastard but he cared about the other templars.”

She then lifted her head with a laugh, shaking her head, before she quickly sliced away the last bit of leather clinging together. “We can chit chat about her dear Commander later,” she commented quickly. “Let's get this armor off so I can look at this wound.”

“Right.”

Between the two of them they managed to get her armor off without jostling her arm or side too badly. Alistair stepped back then to set it off to the side, letting out a surprised noise and turning away with a bright blush as he looked back to find Hawke had wastes no time in cutting Meryell out of most of her tunic. They both grinned at his discomfort - though it also made Meryell miss Cullen and his awkward blushes - then Hawke steered her a few steps over to sit down on a bedroll before carefully lifting her arm.

“Can you hold it there?” she asked softly, her tone surprisingly gentle. As Meryell nodded in reply, Hawke smiled and quickly made several cuts to her tunic. Her work left only the section that was matted against the wound by blood behind as a focus. “Sorry about the shirt. We'll steal one of Alistair’s.”

That made the Warden snort and he called out, “I heard that.” He then began bustling around the cave with his back still to them, digging up a pack that looked like it had seen better days. As he began pawing through it, Hawke smiled - and Meryell noticed that it was an expression that held more than simple fondness.

The mage then leaned forward, murmuring, “Deep breath,” before she began slowly peeling away parts of the shirt. After that, Meryell didn't have much to think about other than the pain and clutching at her thigh with her free hand while she growled out almost every variation of curse word that she knew. Pain eventually muddled her thoughts so much that she lost track of what was going on around her except when Hawke began to heal the wound.

She was hazily aware when Alistair came back over and two pairs of hands slowly wrapped bandages around her now tender side. Hawke's voice then murmured, “Come on now, lay down,” and Meryell lost the fight against unconscious and exhaustion that had been plaguing her.

When she woke back up, Cassandra was leaning against the wall next to her, armor loosened and sword laid across her lap in a half-doze. As soon as Meryell shifted, the warrior was wide awake and reaching out to touch her shoulder with a bare hand.

“Are you well?,” she asked softly. With the way she kept her voice low, it could only be guessed that the others were asleep.

Meryell nodded then moved to sit up as she quietly replied, “Fine. Need to piss like a bitch though.”

Cassandra let out a surely unintended snort of laughter at that, quickly covering it with a serious expression that said _You did not hear that_. “Quite fine then,” she commented dryly. The warrior then patted her shoulder and said, “Give me a moment and we will walk outside.”

“You're gonna come with me and protect my bare ass?” asked Meryell wryly as the older woman rose to her feet, tightening the straps of her armor before she began buckling her sword back onto her belt. “Why, Cass, I didn't think you cared quite that much about my ass.”

“You are certainly fine if you can not only curse but make commentary such as that,” Cassandra noted. She then smiled and said, “I protect you and you protect me. Is that not the way of us in battle?”

“Sure.”

“Then why should it be any different outside of it?”

Meryell just blinked before laughing as Cassandra leaned down to carefully help her to her feet. As soon as she was standing, she briefly clasped the woman's armored forearms, saying, “I'm trying to make you fucking blush and you just neatly brush it off and say something _sweet_.”

“It is not _sweet_. It is...practical.”

“Sweet,” argued Meryell with a smile. “Because you care.”

As the other woman let out a huff, she looked down and noticed that she wasn’t wearing anything from the waist up except bandages and her breastband. For a moment she considered stopping to try and find a tunic or even a cloak then shrugged it off. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d walked around in her under things.

Meryell checked to make sure her boots were still on - they were, though it looked like someone had loosened her lacings - then slowly made her way towards the entrance of the cave with Cassandra at her heels. She glanced around for everyone else as she went and found them scattered all around. Varric had propped himself against a wall with a view of the door, Bianca resting at his side with one hand on her stock and his other still holding a quill over ink-blotted parchment resting on his thigh. Apparently he’d fallen asleep writing. Dorian had settled several steps to the dwarf’s right, one knee drawn up to his chest so he could lean on it in sleep, and his staff leaning against his opposite shoulder with that arm looped around it.

What was a little surprising was where she found Hawke and Alistair.

The pair of them were sitting against the rocks in the center of the cave with Hawke on the side that was closest to where Meryell had been sleeping. Alistair was sitting with his head thrown back in a position that didn’t look all that comfortable but she imagined that Wardens got used to uncomfortable the same sort of way mercenaries did. Hawke had settled next to him with her head pillowed on his shoulder, her coat folded between her face and the armor, and looked perhaps the most at peace she had since they’d met. She also noticed that their hands were clasped together between them, resting on their touching thighs.

Smiling a little at the sight, Meryell then realized _no one_ had been awake and turned to look at Cassandra. “No one’s on fucking watch?” she asked, more than a little surprised. Usually when they were out, someone was _always_ on watch.

“It is my turn. And I was not asleep,” replied the warrior before she stepped past her to push open the heavy door. “Dorian also put down several of his alarms around the entrance to warn if anyone approached.”

“So safe enough.”

“Safe enough, yes.”

Nodding, Meryell moved on in silence. It didn’t take long for them to reach the cave entrance - certainly less time than it had taken to get _to_ the end of the cave earlier - and she saw that it was still in the dark just before dawn. Not that that mattered really to elven eyes.

Those same eyes did, however, equip her to know that there wasn’t _any_ shrubbery near the cave entrance within a stone’s throw.

Rolling her eyes, she grumbled a curse and heard Cassandra chuckle. When she turned to look however, the woman had her back to her, facing away from the cave entrance down the hill. Meryell shook her head and moved a little away from it (though not very far as she imagined Dorian had laid down his alarm spells fairly close), scuffing at the dirt with the heels of her boots until she had a decent hole. One unbuckling of her belt and wiggling out of her trousers, later she was stomping dirt back down into the spot and then heading back into the cave.

When they came back in, Alistair blinked himself awake and automatically reached for the sword resting on the ground next to him. Hawke came awake a moment later, her head jerking up as fire flared around her fingers, and a snarl on her face.

Suddenly Meryell wondered how many people the woman had killed who had come after her and her son.

“It is merely us,” called Cassandra as she shut the door back behind them. It still took a moment for the other two to relax and Hawke expelled the magic she’d gathered to summon several glowing wisps as light to supplement the slowly dying torches in the cave. “Our apologies for waking you.”

“No, no,” grumbled Alistair as he waved off the apology, lifting his hand to rub at his eyes, “it’s fine.” He then seemed to notice that his hand was entangled with Hawke’s and turned to smile at her, his expression tender. Hawke merely smiled, blushing brightly in response, before she pulled her hand away and rose to her feet as she slung her coat back on over her armor.

“Let me take a look at you,” she said in that no nonsense _healer’s tone_ of voice. “You should be fine now but it’s always good to make sure. Especially with demons.”

Nodding, Meryell followed the other woman back over to the bedroll she’d ended up confiscating. As they sat down and Hawke began to unravel the bandages, she arched an eyebrow. “So,” she drawled lightly, “you have a thing for Wardens?”

The woman actually _blushed_ before she said under her breath, “Apparently. I didn’t...it never started out as...this.”

“Never fucking does.”

“Speaking from current experience or past?”

Shrugging slightly, Meryell replied, “Both.” It wasn’t like the other woman hadn’t seen one of her past love affairs come rearing its ugly head up and realized where her current interest lay. She knew enough that Meryell didn’t mind answering honestly.

Hawke snorted at that and continued her work in silence for a long time, until she had all of the bandages unravelled. As she ran her hands over Meryell’s side, she softly said, “I’m not certain it’s worth it.”

Frowning because she wasn’t really used to heartfelt confessions like it seemed this moment was turning into, she asked, “Why? It’s not like we’re going to let the damned Wardens have him. I’ll tell ‘em _myself_ that they can go suck a dick. I’m the fucking Inquisitor. I can do that sort of piss.”

That brought a laugh out of the other woman and she shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s…” Hawke took a deep breath before she continued, “Anders told me that Wardens get thirty years, give or take, before the t...before what makes them Wardens kills them.”

 _Fuck_.

Nodding slightly while she processed that (which sounded like it was _almost_ a Warden secret), Meryell mused, “And he’s _the_ Alistair, right? From the Blight?” When Hawke nodded, her eyes focused on her work, she cursed under her breath. “Which means he’s already down ten years. Shit, I mean, that’s some heavy fucking bullshit but...that still leaves you twenty.”

“If that,” commented Hawke darkly.

“Maker’s aching cock, Hawke, _none of us_ know if we’re going to even see the end of this.” Meryell gestured vaguely with her free hand - as she was keeping the other up and out of the mage’s way - as she continued, “Any of us could take a bad wound, could end up captured, could get knifed by some bugger with a grudge. Or just some random asshole who saw nice garb and a good coin purse. Fuck, Coryphishit could _win_.”

The other woman paused in her work and leaned back, staring at Meryell for a moment before she asked, “Is this supposed to be your _fucking do it while you can or quit bitching_ speech?

“We can call it that. How’s my side?”

“Probably will be tender for a while longer but you’ll live.” Hawke then picked up a tunic that Meryell hadn’t noticed had been neatly folded and laid at the edge of the bedroll. As she took it, the other woman asked, “Is that how you view your relationship with Cullen?”

Freezing as she started to unfold the tunic, Meryell let out a slightly bitter laugh before saying, “I guess I deserved that.” She then quickly pulled the tunic over her head, feeling the new skin on her side pull slightly but not enough to cause pain with the motion, and smoothed it down. Judging by how it pooled in her lap, it was probably going to be about as long on her as Cullen’s training tunic had been. They did seem to be of the same height from what she’d observed of Alistair so far.

“Meryell, I didn’t…”

Holding up a hand to stall whatever the mage was going to say, she began, “As you can imagine from that shitshow you witnessed in the courtyard before we left, I’ve had piss luck with relationships. I don’t think…” Meryell paused and ran a hand through her hair before she went on. “Neither of us came into this thinking it was going to be anything but friendship.”

“Which obviously became something more,” commented Hawke.

“Despite both of us doubting ourselves the whole way,” pointed out Meryell sternly. When Hawke looked confused, she bluntly said, “We’ve both told ourselves shit for _years_ that someone wouldn’t want us. Mostly for things we couldn’t control. And I knew after that nugshit went down with Camden that I couldn’t keep hiding what I felt. So did he.”

Slowly Hawke nodded and said, “Take the leap or quit your bitching.” Then she laughed before adding, “You’ve been good for the asshole, y’know. He’s far less of a prick than he was in Kirkwall.”

“Don’t think that was me, Hawke,” replied Meryell lightly. Cullen certainly hadn’t acted like a prick when she’d met him. Distant, slightly aloof, sure. Prick? Fuck, she’d known too many real pricks to put the description to the man. Then again, Hawke had seen him at some of his worst.

“Just take some fucking credit. Maker’s breath, neither of you can take credit worth _shit_.”

Laughing, she got to her feet and reached out for Hawke’s hand to help her up as well. As the mage took her hand, Meryell said, “Now that we’ve got me all healed up, we should get the actual conversation with _your Warden_ started.” The other woman blushed before reaching out to punch her in the left shoulder.

“You watch out or I’m going to start making fun of you and Curly,” jibed Hawke as she pointed a finger at her.

Meryell just laughed as she started to walk back towards the main part of the cave where it seemed like Cassandra had roused everyone as she heard the sound of Dorian and Varric’s voices. Turning, she called over her shoulder, “You’d only be one more in the mix, Hawke. Now let’s get this shit started. I’d like to get back to Skyhold at some fucking point and out of this fucking shit weather.”

* * *

“Seeker Cassandra, where’s the Inquisitor?!”

At the sound of Charter’s concerned voice coming from above them in Caer Bronach, Meryell handed the reins of her Forder off and stepped out of the stables. She expected the panic to fade when the other elf noticed her but it only seemed to _increase_. Charter brushed past Cassandra at a pace that had the older woman’s eyebrows lifting and turning to follow her back down the stairs.

“Letter for you, ma’am,” Charter said shortly as she held aloft a rolled up bit of parchment. “The Nightingale marked it as urgent and sent a note that I was to have you riding back to Skyhold as soon as you made it back into contact.”

A thrill of concern went through Meryell at the words. Much as she and Leliana didn’t like each other, they’d garnered a similar sort of grudging respect as her and Chuckles had. And she knew well enough that the spymaster didn’t send out notes saying she was needed back immediately lightly.

“Is the letter from her or someone else?”

“I don’t know the seal,” replied the elf as she handed it over. “The Nightingale had her note wrapped around it and sealed with her own, so she approved it being sent.”

Meryell nodded slightly and turned it over, her heart instantly dropping to somewhere near her knees. The seal that had been pressed into the red wax that closed the parchment was from Folke’s coin, the old emblem of the Ferelden mabaris that was a near twin to the coin around her own neck (minus an Age or two). That wasn’t, however, what had her hands suddenly shaking as well.

There were also three marks around the seal, seemingly random scratches that were actually the simplistic version of the company codes for short communication.

_Urgent._

_Medical._

_Leader down._

“Swears?” she vaguely registered Varric saying as she broke the seal and frantically jerked it open upon seeing the last code. Meryell found Folke's greeting at the top - his much-loved _Poppet_ \- and then skimmed down for other names, her mind whirling through the translations of the normal codes.

When she came across _Cullen_ and _lyrium attack_ , she nearly lost feeling in her knees. _His headaches_ , she thought deliriously, remembering the last lyrium attack the company had witnessed amongst it's own. _Maker's fucking cock, I should have known from his headaches getting worse._

“We have to go,” she managed, barely recognizing the sound of her own voice as it cracked slightly. “We have to go _now._ ”

“What is going on?” demanded Cassandra, having finally reached them. “Meryell?”

Looking up, Meryell met her friend’s eyes and breathed, “ _Cullen_ .” The older woman instantly reached out towards her, hand gripping tightly at her elbow, and she hoped that her expression carried how _dire_ this was. Mostly because she honestly didn’t think she could explain the danger without fucking it up or completely breaking down and being useless.

Cassandra must have seen something because she immediately snapped, “Charter. Find us fresh mounts and armor for the Inquisitor. And something less...flashy...for our Warden friend.”

Charter glanced at Meryell worriedly, obviously concerned, but didn’t ask questions. She merely saluted with a clasped hand over her heart then turned away to start shouting orders. As soon as she was gone, Cassandra said in a low voice, “We will go.”

Suddenly she was all too grateful that the Seeker knew about him stopping lyrium.

“What’s going on?” asked Hawke as she and Alistair exited the stable from behind Meryell.

“Something’s up with Curly,” replied Varric, actually sounding worried. As Hawke gasped, Meryell closed her eyes, clenched her fingers around the letter, and just tried to _breathe_.

 _Baba will keep him safe_ , she said to herself, drowning out the noise of the suddenly bustling stable and everything else around her except the sensation of Cassandra’s firm grip. The letter probably said the same, probably told her not to worry, but she didn’t have the energy to read it. All she could think of was _losing him_ and it made her heart break.

_Baba will not let him die._

_He will_ **_not._ **


	36. “What happened?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn a thing about how the Fangs have dealt with their templars and lyrium withdrawal and Cullen learns just exactly how he once knew Gil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making it in just under the wire for posting. I blame getting back into playing Skyrim recently (I only have 64 hours of playtime on PC and this is far too low).

“...ullen? Comm...len, can yo....ear me?”

It felt like coming up from beneath the depths of the lake near his childhood home when he'd fallen through the winter ice. He was completely numb, his mind fluttering, and the only thing he was aware of really was the shaking in his limbs.

A cool hand pried his eye open and Cullen flinched at the sudden light. There was also a secondary sensation - a tearing, ripping feel along what was left of his senses that had him crying out involuntarily in pain - and the voice from earlier gasped.

“No hea...agic! You...ake it worse. Go find...olke.”

His head kept sliding in and out of the then and now, barely able to process what he was hearing. One moment he was at Kinloch standing watch inside the library then he was in the courtyard of the Gallows. Then he was standing in Haven, watching in horror as a familiar pillar of light exploded into the air - only green, not red - before an invisible wave knocked him flat. Back to Kinloch, Kath’s broken body lying on the floor while he tried to just  _ breathe _ through the grief. Facing down his Knight-Commander. Watching Meryell run out of the Chantry before he physically held her father back from following.

There was a sudden crash, like thunder echoing around and through him, and he heard another voice. A hand came to rest against his throat, fingers pressing against the pulse point, as they asked, “Lyrium attack?”

“Shows the signs,” replied the other and he knew them.  _ Knew _ that he knew them but the names just wouldn't come.

“ _ Fuck _ . Becker, run over...nd get some mo...lers. Studey, fi...eed herbs.  _ Move, lads! _ ”

There was a sound like yelping dogs - he remembered the hounds in Honnleath, the non-Mabari hunting hounds, sounding like that - and then there was another crash. It made him flinch and he was certain he cried out in response.

“Ne...upstairs.”

“Not happening. Floor will do...pallet.”

“Fine.”

Cullen felt like he was dropping again, like he had before his father had hauled him out of the lake. He'd been so  _ tired _ …

“Commander!”

His eyes got wrenched open again but this time he didn't have the ability to even make a sound. He did, however, feel a heavy hand grip his tightly and  _ squeeze _ .

“Stay with us,  _ isha’len _ ,” that second voice urged. “Sta...ith us.”

Out of everything he grabbed onto that one word and for a brief, flickering second his mind  _ cleared _ . Cullen licked his lips slowly - they were dry, so  _ dry _ \- and then tried to open his eyes despite the weight seeming to drag them down. He didn't manage and instead just asked, “Folke?”

“Aye,  _ isha’len _ ,” replied the man. “Now you've go...ay with us. You understand? You do...king  _ think _ of falling asleep.”

“Tired,” he murmured, feeling the cold starting to drag him back down.

“No, no,  _ no _ , come on, lad. Don't you sodd...o me. Don't you fucking  _ dare _ .”

Rough hands grabbed his face but even that sensation was fading away, lost to the cold consuming him. Cullen was barely aware of anything then before thin fingers touched his temples and a new voice softly said, “Fading, fading away into the cold. Like slipping beneath the ice, lost, lost, lost, until a strong arm dragged him back. Memories flicker like shadows, echoes in the empty place inside.”

_ Was  _ it said? Or was it in his  _ head _ ?

“ _ Cole! _ ” barked Folke. “Don’t let him go!”

“She would be sad, would lose her heart. I will not let him.”

_ Meryell _ , thought Cullen with sudden panic, though it did little other than thrill through him and absolutely nothing to drive back the cold.  _ Maker, am I dying? _ He fought to hang on to what shred of coherency he had left, to stay awake as Folke had demanded, but his body as well as mind had other ideas. As his mind touched upon place after place and person after person -  _ Honnleath, Kinloch, his parents, Gregoir, Kirkwall, Haven, Meredith, Hawke, Skyhold, Home, Meryell, Meryell, Meryell _ \- he was dimly aware of his body abruptly jerking off the floor. Seizing, the word was; he remembered from it happening to a mage during his first years in Kirkwall.

He felt fingers press on his forehead and hands on his shoulders but after that, he knew no more.

* * *

Pain.

Pain was the first immediate impression.

Surprise was the immediate second.

Cullen blinked up at the ceiling of the main part of his office for a long moment before he realized that he was lying in a pallet tucked up against his bookshelves. By feel, it seemed like someone had hauled the whole of his bedding down from the loft...minus the actual bed, of course. He slowly went through a careful regard of his body, twitching fingers and toes and giving a slight flex to aching muscles, before being satisfied that his body was in seemingly working order if heavy feeling. Then Cullen turned his head to look around the office and found Gil sitting in his desk chair, a book folded around a finger on her lap as she smiled down at him.

“Good morning, Commander,” she said warmly, her voice low. She leaned forward conspiratorially to add, “I can't imagine your voice has recovered much but do try not to speak loudly. Folke and Enchanter Fiona are sleeping in cots on the other side of the room.

Cullen merely arched his eyebrows - Maker, even  _ those _ hurt - confused by her words. He had so many questions. The first one being why would he have needed to let his voice recover?

Instead he licked his lips and asked, “What happened?” His voice was low and rough, like he'd been shouting orders for hours on end, but knew he hadn't. Or at least he thought he hadn't. Honestly he didn't even know what day it was.

Gil grimaced and quietly folded a scrap of paper into her book, setting it on his desk, before simply pushing herself out of his chair. As she sank onto the floor, she extended her hands towards him then paused to tip her head sideways and ask, “Before I answer, I wish to cast diagnostics on you. May I?”

More confused than ever, he just nodded and as she started to move again, he asked, “How did you know?” When she frowned, Cullen added, “To ask.”

Her mouth opened just slightly and then then lifted a hand to her face, closing her eyes as she chuckled darkly and shook her head. “Maker,” she muttered, “I thought you’d realized. Perhaps my memory of you is better than yours of me.”

Cullen blinked, confused, before shaking his head. “I know...Meryell said you were at Kin...at the Tower. That I...no, that the way Commander Greagoir handled...things...was why you left.”

_ Maker _ , he was stuttering about like a youth again.

“You. How he handled the situation with  _ you _ ,” murmured Gil as her hands glowed softly with magic before she laid one on his chest and let the other hover over his forehead, fingers moving in slow circles. He fought to not flinch when it came near, feeling the ache of the magic in his  _ bones _ . She obviously noticed because she immediately said soothingly, “Only a moment, Commander, only a moment. I will not hurt you. I will  _ not _ .”

The woman sounded so resolute and when her voice  _ cracked _ on the last word she uttered, he closed his eyes and just focused on breathing. He imagined for a moment that it was just a woman sitting next to him, just a normal healer, before realizing that that was unkind of him. Gil had done her level best to help Meryell. She was the reason the woman he loved  _ had feet _ , the reason that the frostbite hadn’t done its worst. The reason she  _ lived _ .

No matter his fear of magic, he could not simply forget that she was a mage. To do so would discount what she had done for Meryell.

So, instead, Cullen took a deep breath and opened his eyes to look right at the magic gathering around the fingers fluttering above his eyes. The power was subtle, barely a flicker of usage despite the ache it caused in him, and he just took a moment before he slowly let out that breath.

“I believe you,” he managed to say on the exhale and the  _ smile _ the woman gave him was blinding. She was true to her word as well in that it was only a moment before her magic faded, though it left him aching and sore.

“The worst has passed,” she murmured, suddenly clutching a hand to her heart. “Maker and his Bride and all the Creators be praised.” He arched his eyebrows at someone praying to both the Andrastian  _ and _ Elven gods in one breath but let it lie. Mostly because whatever had happened sounded like it had been bad.

Gil then leaned forward, pulling the blankets covering him up around his shoulders and smoothing the edges down with a serious expression on her face. “We nearly lost you,” she said quietly. “There is....I will be honest, Commander. I know there have been many who have lied to you in your life and I will not be one of them along the likes of Greagoir and Meredith.”

“You know there have been templars amongst our ranks,” she went on as he tried to process what exactly she might know about his relationship with the two Knight-Commanders he’d served under.

“Meryell told me,” replied Cullen with a slight nod.

“But she did not tell you of what some of them have gone through.”

Shaking his head slightly back and forth, he said, “No. Merely that she had seen a good many go through withdrawals with more dying than living.”

“I see. Well...perhaps Folke shielded her from the worst.” Gil shook her head and muttered, “Maker knows we have tried to keep the company and even some of the templars who survive from knowing how bad it is at times.”

Cullen frowned at that and gathered up what strength he had to growl sternly, “ _ Tell me _ .”

The woman looked him in the eye in response and replied firmly, “In short, the shock of lyrium loss to your system became too much for it to handle and it couldn’t take the stress. So it attempted to shut down entirely.”

Suddenly he was very aware that by  _ We nearly lost you _ she meant that he had nearly died. Cullen felt the blood drain out of his face as he abruptly felt faint and sick to his stomach before he breathed out one word.

“ _ How? _ ”

“We gave it what it wanted.”

For a moment he was stunned, certain that he hadn’t heard what he thought he just had but the look on Gil’s face said it all. Then he noticed the lack of his almost ever-present headache, which had been a near constant background sensation despite the efforts of her potions and Folke’s teas lately. Even with the pain he was currently in, he  _ should _ have noticed it. Now it was practically negligible.

Then the anger hit and he fought to keep it inside, trapped in his chest like the animal it was. That didn’t stop the growl from spiraling out of him as he hissed, “You gave me  _ lyrium? _ ”

“Would you rather I have let you  _ die? _ ” she snarled back, equally as furious. Gil sat on her knees, hands folded in her lap, back straight, practically a picture of calm propriety. Her eyes - pale brown, the color of the pages in the oldest books in the Tower, he noted in some faraway fashion - told an entirely different story; that of a woman enraged, of one who was hanging by a thread.

And suddenly he remembered in a burst standing guard over one of the teaching sessions focused on healing in the Tower. At the time his attention had all been for Kath, sitting pert and proper in the front row as the perfect example of an attentive student. On second glance, he  _ sees _ the teacher’s face, sees how she is perhaps ten years older than he and Kath at the most but certain, steady as she sits in the same manner as now while speaking about the nature of healers. Remembers the flash of her pale face over the shoulders of his brothers when he somehow staggered his way into the entrance hall on the heels of the Wardens’ party, snarling about demons and abominations and how they had to kill the survivors.

“Gil.  _ Engill _ ,” gasped Cullen. “Enchanter Dryton.”

Just like that, she softened and smiled down at him. “I haven’t been an Enchanter for a decade, Commander. Not since I left the Circle.” Then her stern anger reappeared as she snapped, “That, however, is beside the point, Commander. Your  _ continued treatment _ is the point.”

_ That _ sent a prickle of irritation up his spine and brought all of the anger that had been temporarily shocked out of him at recognizing her roaring back. It sounded like the crashing of storm waves against the Gallows docks, that booming, all-encompassing sound that had terrified him during his first years. His fellows had laughed at him but he hadn’t wanted to explain that it reminded him of the doors slamming open and shut in the Tower, of never knowing whether it was friend or foe on the other side. Couldn’t have explained even if he’d wanted to, he’d been tied up so tight inside himself. Now it was roaring in his ears again and all he could feel was  _ rage _ .

“You gave me  _ lyrium _ ,” he repeated, his tone clipped and accusatory. “After  _ months _ without.”

“And a single hour more without,” Gil snarled right back, “might have killed you. I have _watched_ it kill men and women, Commander. Young and old, frail and strong, it takes and takes and _takes_ without giving an inch in return. I have served these eight years with the company as a healer and I have watched far too many good people succumb to that _shit_ the Chantry forces into its templars. And I remember every one that died. _Every. One._ ” She then leaned forward, furious and with her teeth bared, and Cullen pressed himself back into the mattress in automatic response. “So I will not regret _one whit_ in saving your life by whatever means I have at hand, Cullen Rutherford, whether it be lyrium or fucking _blood_ _magic_. I will not let another templar die if I can stop it. _I will not._ ”

Blinking at her for a long moment, he licked his lips as Gil stared hard at him before she leaned back. He was still angry that she had done it but having the fact out there that she had watched every templar who had come through the company in eight years suffer...that put a damper on his temper. Instead he reached for calm instead of temper and slowly asked, “You're certain I would have died without it?”

The woman nodded firmly in response, her stern facade softening again now that he was trying to be calm. “Yes,” she replied and there was no lie in her tone. “Folke and I might not have managed it if not for that boy.”

“Boy?” he repeated.

“Cole, I believe Folke called him?”

And suddenly Cullen remembered a dozen or more half forgotten glimpses of skinny limbs and straw blond hair. Of sitting behind Meryell in the healer's tent after Haven with his hands shaking and seeing a boy just  _ appear _ out of nothing. Discussing the wild spirit roaming the keep with Cassandra and coming to the mutual decision that it was not a danger yet.

He owed his  _ life _ to a  _ spirit _ .

Feeling suddenly faint again, he murmured, “He is not merely a boy.”

“He is and is not,” she replied vaguely. “We were lucky for his aid. He held you at the edge alongside Folke and gave our lads enough time to grab the supplies I needed.”

“And the Enchanter?”

Gil just shrugged as she replied, “She was the closest since she haunts the library and enough of a healer to take Folke's place when he tired. That and that bald elf wasn't lurking about. We had other healers in here as well but they've gone back to their duties now.”

“They…”

“Were mostly company members at first,” she said pointedly, sensing his question before he even had it slightly voiced. “The lads Folke had with him when he came in went for them first. Fiona pulled in a few she swore could be trusted to keep their traps shut as well as that grumpy apothecary. You've nothing to fear about news of what happened getting out.”

Frowning, Cullen asked, “How long have I been down? What story have you been telling?”

“Five and a half days total,” replied Gil. “Counting both the hours after you collapsed and those so far today. As for story, there's rather conveniently that sickness in the camps.”

“Right,” he murmured. It had been haunting the camps for a while now and it served an easy explanation since he was always getting visitors from in and outside the keep. “Rylen stepped in to command?”

Gil just nodded and a sudden tenseness that he hadn't even noticed uncoiled inside his body. Abruptly tired - though a normal tired, not the dragging down sensation that he barely recalled from before - he closed his eyes again and asked, “So...treatment? Am I to go  _ back _ on lyrium, Gil?” He couldn't keep the bitter tone out of his voice as he asked the last.

_ Am I doomed to that life? To the surety of slowly losing my mind? To forgetting myself and those I love? _

The woman sitting next to him lightly swatted his shoulder through the blanket and snapped, “Don't be so melodramatic, Commander.” He opened an eye to peer at her and she smiled gently down at him.

“Much of this is what Folke and I would have mentioned to you when we were supposed to have our talk. We will begin as the company healers have with many templars,” she explained calmly, “with a small, diluted portion of lyrium. Nowhere near what you once made for yourself with your kit. We may or may not have to adjust that initial amount to find a happy balance that we can start from.”

“And then?”

Gil smiled as she replied, “Then we work our way down until you no longer have need of it. It will be a long, arduous process but it seems you have the bad luck of being one of those templars who can't just up and quit. I still haven’t figured out why that reaction in particular happens but I believe it has something to do with the way lyrium lingers in the body for so long.” Her face fell a moment later and she sighed. “It will not be pretty and you probably will suffer through the worst of the withdrawals again. Likely similar at first to what they were when you first quit.”

Cullen let out a long breath at that, closing his one open eye once more and slowly shaking his head in disbelief. He felt her hand on his shoulder then, squeezing tightly in a gesture of comfort.

“We have done this many times, Cullen,” she said in a low voice. “You have already withstood so much. You survived without lyrium for this long, which is a feat beyond what I have seen from  _ any _ who've served the length you have. This is not the end, do not think that. You  _ can _ survive this. The  _ company  _ will see to it.”

Twitching in surprise, he opened his eyes to look up at her. The earnest expression on her face made him  _ want _ to believe even as he doubted.

“The company?” he repeated.

She just smiled and replied, “Our Meryell has claimed you. So long as you are hers and she yours, the company will consider you ours. I have that from the Captain's own mouth when he learned what happened.”

Gil then soberly added, “And I won't abandon you to suffering again.”

Furrowing his brow in confusion as he tried to process that comment as well as apparently being declared honorary company, Cullen queried, “Again?”

“I was in charge of the templars who were starting to lose themselves in the Tower,” she explained. “Researching lyrium was a personal project of mine as an apprentice and one that Irving encouraged. I think the old fart had long been trying to get someone in with Greagoir to help his templars for a long time but...you lot are stubborn.”

He snorted and she flashed a smile at him.

“When I passed my Harrowing, Irving somehow convinced Greagoir to let me start dealing with the older templars. I always had a guard of course - Ser Walter, you remember that old warhorse? - just to be safe. That was where I started learning that templars were just as trapped by the Chantry as we mages, even if they chose to serve.”

Gil shook her head before going on, “It was never anything like what I've done with the company. Mostly observation of them and being kind while making notes of what the effects of lyrium did to them. I learned how to handle them.”

“But you didn't discover much of anything,” Cullen guessed.

“Not with what I had,” she replied with a shake of her head. “The templars affected who were kept in the Tower were only those just beginning the fall. A handful of forgotten memories here, a persistent headache or two. None of them suffered withdrawals and that was really the information I needed. What did they go through? How did it make them feel? What did a sudden lack and then a fresh dose do to a body and mind that had been without for days or a week or more?”

He blanched at the question and murmured, “Terrible things.” When she placed a sympathetic hand on his arm, Cullen laughed hoarsely. “But I think you know that now.”

“Not then,” she replied softly. “After...after everything, I asked Gregoir to turn you over to me. To let me handle your recovery and reintroduction to lyrium.” Gil gritted her teeth together and growled out, “He told me that it was  _ handled _ , that you were  _ fine _ , and that you'd already been given lyrium. He said that your fellow templars would handle it and that now, with Irving’s pet project good as dead since all of the older had fallen victim to the demons, I would be going back fully to the healer courses. I replied with a great many things he didn't want to hear.”

Cullen could feel her hand shaking in response to her anger where it still rested on his arm. “Gil,” he said softly. When she looked down at him, he added, “I...thank you. For trying.”

Her angry expression  _ instantly _ fell apart and her fingers clenched slightly. “Oh, lad,” she breathed. “Don't thank me for something I didn't do.”

“You  _ tried _ ,” pressed Cullen. He turned his head to look at the ceiling then before growling bitterly, “That's more than anyone else did for me. I doubt I would have been a very good patient though. And if...if I'd hurt you…”

“Best not to think on things that will never happen,” interrupted Gil. “There lies the way of madness.” He turned back towards her and found her smiling, her eyes showing a fondness that he was honestly a little shocked by. Especially ten years later and after surely hearing a little about his actions (or inaction) in Kirkwall.

“We're here now,” he murmured quietly, the only thing he could think to say. What else was there beyond that? Other than commenting that it was the Maker’s own luck that they’d ended up near each other again after a very long decade.

Chuckling, she nodded her head and said, “That we are, Commander, that we are. You should rest now and try to regain some more of your strength. We'll need that stubborn resolve of yours to be up to tip-top shape.” Gil shifted then, moving to stretch her legs out parallel to where he was laying with her back up against the wall of his office. Her hand came back to rest on his shoulder as she asked, “May I cast on you again? A minor alarm, just in case the lyrium in your system does something strange. It shouldn't bit I prefer to be safe.”

“Whatever you deem best, healer,” replied Cullen with a smile as he felt tiredness sweeping over him almost immediately after she said  _ rest _ .

“Only so long as you're comfortable with it.”

“Maker's balls, I think I'm too tired to care.”

Gil just laughed and he watched her fingers flick out of the corner of his eyes, feeling the magic hum and burn slightly for a brief moment before the sensation faded. “Our Meryell is a bad influence,” she commented.

Scrunching his nose as he closed his eyes, Cullen grumbled, “Why is everyone under the impression that I'm some sort of paragon of virtue?” When she just laughed in response, he shook his head and let out a long sigh.

“No worries, Commander,” she said softly after a moment, her hand sliding down to a comfortable position next to him on the pallet. “I'm here to watch your sleep once more.” At that, he flinched because that likely hadn’t been pretty and probably explained her first comment about his throat. It also made him more than a little embarrassed that more people were aware of his nightmares and dreaded to think of what he might have said in their grip.

Exhaustion had him in its firm grasp now, however, and he couldn’t have stopped the plunge downward into sleep if he’d wanted to. Before he was gone entirely, though, Cullen was vaguely aware of skinny fingers brushing over his forehead and a boy’s voice whispering in his ear.

“I will help. Help forget the elf girl with the demon’s eyes until you can test the chains again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a whole explanation as to why exactly I have this occurring, which will come up in a later chapter. And it both is and isn’t that I’m a terrible person and enjoy torturing characters (that is part of it, I shan’t lie). I shall mainly explain it now as believing that while the effects of lyrium withdrawal is said to be dire, we never get an actual visual of that beyond Cullen’s nightmares, his headaches, and the shakes. So I'm amending that.


	37. “Fuck you, Bull.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A worried Meryell returns to Skyhold with the full intent of not letting anything stand between her and getting to Cullen. She didn't, of course, count on the Iron Bull stepping in when he sees she's not in the right frame of mind to do just that.

“Get out of my _fucking way_ , Bull,” snarled Meryell as she glared at the Qunari who was blocking her way out of the stable. After she'd rode ahead of everyone else to make it up the hill into Skyhold and paused long enough to take care of her horse (because she'd been taught well enough that you didn't abuse a good mount), she wasn't in the mood for anything.

“No way, Boss,” he replied, voice steady and firm. “Not till you calm down.”

“I am _calm_.”

The Iron Bull merely arched an eyebrow in response and flicked his eye downward before he brought them back up to meet hers. “Your hands are shaking,” he observed, “your pupils are constricted, and you’re breathing like you just ran up the hill from the lower camps at a dead sprint instead of riding. If that’s your definition of calm, Boss, we need to have a serious talk.”

Growling in frustration, Meryell stormed forward so she was standing toe-to-toe with the Qunari (so to speak, given their height difference) and spat, “If you don’t get the _fuck_ out of my way, Bull…”

He interrupted her by raising a hand calmly and saying softly, “I know you just want to go see the Commander, Boss.”

“Then what in all of the nugshit in Orzammar are you doing standing between me and that?” exploded Meryell, a little louder than she’d intended. A few of the stable hands turned to look at them and she hissed out a breath before she forced her voice to a lower volume. “You can’t keep me here in the stable.”

“No,” replied Bull, “but I can keep you out of his tower until you _calm down_.”

The Qunari then leaned down so he could breath in her ear, “It won’t do him any good in his recovery if you go in there with your tits in a bunch.”

Meryell jerked back at his words and snarled, “What do you _know?_ ”

“I don’t know details but I know something happened to him while you’ve been gone. And it wasn’t this shit we got told about him catching sick from the camps.” Bull blinked calmly at her as he added, “I’d bet a hefty bit of coin that it has something to do with him stopping lyrium.”

“Fucking shit _fuck_ ,” she cursed.

“Not helping, Boss.”

Meryell curled her lip in response, snarling, “Maybe I'd be less stressed if you just let me go fucking see him!”

“Boss,” stressed Bull, “I got asked to make sure you were calm from that company healer of yours. So, you want to see Cullen, you've got to calm down.”

Curling her fingers into fists, she stared at him for a long moment before growling, “ _I am calm!_ ”

“How are you at fighting foes bigger than you?”

“You want to _spar_?!”

Bull shook his head and replied sternly, “More like smack your stubborn ass into the ground until you can't see straight.”

Meryell glared up at him for a long moment, practically vibrating with rage now. How _dare_ he fucking do this shit to her? He didn't know her from Andraste’s swollen cunt and Bull sure as shit didn't have any authority over her. Not _even_ if he'd been asked by Gil to make sure she was calm.

She was as fucking _calm_ as she was going to damned well get!

“Fuck you, Bull,” she snarled before moving to lunge past him in the little space there was in the stable’s main door. He sidestepped into her path, holding out a broad hand in the universal gesture of _stop_.

“Don't make me hurt you, Boss.”

“Get out of my fucking way then!”

“No.”

Snarling, Meryell turned and bolted for the other exit of the stables that ran through the stalls. She didn't get two damned steps before a large hand snatched one of her legs and whipped her off her feet. The air was knocked out of her lungs as she hit the hay covered dirt floor, not reacting quickly enough to fully catch herself. Another hand pressed down on her back with gentle pressure and she bucked up against it without thinking.

“Calm down,” Bull intoned firmly.

“ _Su an’banal i’ma!_ ” growled Meryell in reply, twisting her face around against the floor so she could glare up at him.

The big Qunari just sat there holding her down, crouching sedately next to her prone form as if it were any other day while the stable hands fluttered nervously nearby. He blinked calmly down at her before saying, “I don't understand Elven, Boss.”

Not giving a single fuck for once, she just replied with, “ _Fenedhis lasa!_ ”

“All right. Since we're drawing a bit of a crowd, we're going to take this elsewhere.” Meryell tried to twist, snarling like an animal, at that but Bull just plain _outsized_ her. It was almost like the few times she'd been cornered by a male who was bigger than her except this time she wasn't afraid. She trusted Bull and knew enough about him that he wasn't the type to make moves unless they were welcomed.

Now she was just _pissed_.

She expected him to just toss her over his shoulder, to maybe give her a chance to escape, but he surprised her. Instead of doing what she'd expected, Bull lifted her up into his arms in a normal carry and now she knew why. It let him keep control of her arms and legs.

“ _Fucker_ ,” she snarled, glaring up at him as he rose and left the stable. Bull just smiled before he focused on wherever they were going, nodding as they passed people staring at him carrying an obviously pissed off Inquisitor. Meryell kept trying to escape, writhing her limbs as much as she could, but her strength was no match to his.

“Chief!” shouted Krem suddenly, jogging up as they came up into the upper courtyard. The Charger then slowed as Meryell turned her head to glare daggers at him and flicked his eyes between the two of them. “You two eloping or something, Chief? I don't think the Commander would be too happy about that.”

Bull laughed loudly, his chest shaking Meryell, as she spat, “Go bugger a dog, Krem.”

“Thought you Ferelden sort were the only ones for that,” replied the man with a wry smile, her comment rolling right off of him. Krem then looked at Bull as Meryell snarled wordlessly at him, asking, “So what's up, Chief?”

“Trying to get this one to calm down. She's putting up as much fight as a dragon right now.”

“What's the plan? Should I get some of the lads?”

“Usual,” replied Bull before he started off again. “You lot can keep her from bolting away from me.

Krem snorted a laugh and Meryell watched him jog off, glaring, until she turned her attention back to the Iron Bull. “The fuck?” she growled.

“You'll see,” he replied. That was when she noticed that they were in the space behind the tavern where Cassandra usually fought against her much battered practice dummies. Frowning, she looked up at him as he stopped and attempted to wriggle out of his grip again. Bull just locked down his arms before saying, “You might as well stop, Boss. You're not getting out of this.”

“ _Cocksucker_ ,” snarled Meryell, to which the Qunari just arched an eyebrow.

“Not sure how that's an insult there, Boss.”

“ _Fenedhis_.”

Bull started to open his mouth to say something when the pounding of booted feet coming around the tavern interrupted him. Krem and ten other Chargers - some of the sturdiest members who Meryell knew could all pack or take a punch - came around the corner and fanned out in a circle around where they stood in the half secluded area. At that, Bull smiled and called out, “Alright, boys, we've got us an intervention here. You keep her in the circle no matter what. Understand?”

“Aye, Chief!”

“Good.” The Qunari then unceremoniously and without warning dropped Meryell. She fell, an involuntary yelp coming out of her, before she crashed into the unforgiving ground in a groaning heap. Vaguely she heard Bull take a step away from her then clap his hands, clucking his tongue like she was a dog. “Come on then, Boss,” he said. “If you can get past me, you can go see the Commander.

Lifting her head off the ground, she narrowed her eyes at him and asked through gritted teeth, “Past you?”

He just nodded before saying, “Without daggers.”

Snorting, she rolled to her feet and made an immediate sprint for his right side. One of the Chargers jeered loudly just as she thought she was in the clear. Then Bull’s hand whipped out and caught her in the chest in an open handed blow that probably would have cracked her ribs at full force. Instead it just canceled out all of her momentum as he flexed and sent her tumbling backwards head over heels. She landed face down in the dirt and just laid there winded for a moment as several of the Chargers whistled impressively.

“One, nothing, Boss.”

 _Fuck him_ , she thought as she slowly leveled herself to her feet again. Her harness pulled around her shoulders where the cloth of her tunic had gotten bunched under her not quite fitting borrowed armor but she ignored the sensation. It was irrelevant.

Everything came down to getting past Bull.

Snarling, Meryell bounded forward again and this time ducked low as she got close to him, diving to the left to try and slide past him along the ground. Bull merely kicked out a heavy booted foot in response and she just _barely_ made the dodge. His boot’s soles passed within mere inches of her face as she spun away before crashing face first into the ground.

“Two, nothing,” intoned Bull matter-of-factly.

Sheer rage battered Meryell up onto her feet and she flung herself straight at him, intending on trying her best to climb him like a damned tree. Bull instead caught her foot on its first lash out for a foothold and, in one smooth motion, flipped her head over heels.

As she landed on the ground hard with a bone-jarring thump, she heard Cassandra bellow from nearby, “ _What in the Maker’s name?_ ”

“Krem,” grunted Bull, jerking his head behind him without taking his eye off her as she struggled back up to hands and knees. “Fill in the Seeker. Tell her talk to the healer if she wants confirmation.”

The Tevinter saluted quickly and broke out of the circle, leaving a gap for a span of a breath. Meryell eyed it, trying to get her feet under her quickly enough to take advantage, but she was struggling. It gave them enough time to close ranks again.

Breathing hard, she watched Krem talking to Cassandra for a long moment before turning to glare at Bull. “I fucking hate you,” she spat out between half-gasped breaths.

The Qunari just shrugged before saying, “I'm just here as a worried friend, Boss.”

“ _The fuck you are!_ ” she howled before charging at him again. This time she went straight for a nut shot and when he blocked that, slammed her fist into his side right around the kidneys. Bull grunted but didn't waver as he grabbed her shoulders with both hands and tossed her backwards. Meryell managed to roll with that one, tucking her body so she came up in a crouch with teeth bared.

She just barely heard a Charger breath, “ _Damn_ ,” before she was rushing forward again. And again after she was sent tumbling backwards with the equivalent of a light swat. And again. And again.

Every tumble was another moment she wasn't in the tower.

Every casual blow was another strike upon the coals of her anger.

Every heaving breath she took was almost choking to the point of panicking.

Eventually it came down to her standing in the center of the circle the Chargers made, breathing hard as she leaned over with her hands on her knees. She _hurt_ , her body feeling as bruised and battered as it had ever been (though not quite post-avalanche Haven). Meryell was so exhausted from her attempts to get past the Iron Bull that it was a wonder she could think, let alone remain standing.

“You want to try again, Boss?” he asked, his voice sounding distant thanks to the blood pounding in her skull.

Slowly she lifted her head, feeling as if it was wobbling on her neck, and blinked at the big Qunari. He calmly stared back, patient as a stone. Meryell straightened painfully, her back protesting after what it had been submitted to, and shuffled forward a determined step. _Cullen_ , she thought blearily. She still needed to see Cullen.

Whispers came from the throats of the Chargers surrounding her but she couldn't make out what they were saying. Her head was too rattled and her mind too tired to pick up on anything despite her keen ears. Instead she focused on the spot just past Bull’s left, where Krem had stepped back into line after speaking with Cassandra. She'd thought the older woman had been going to step in but whatever the other mercenary had told her had been satisfactory. It hadn't stopped Cassandra from coming back for a while after she'd cleaned up and sitting down outside, watching them as she read her latest book.

Focusing on that spot and the tower she could see behind it, Meryell kept moving forward. And it wasn't until she was level _with_ Krem that she stopped and turned to look back at Bull. He had turned to watch her, his arms crossed over his chest, and dipped his head in a deep nod.

“You're calm now, Boss. Go get yourself cleaned up and go see him. Make yourself useful and help out our Inquisitor, Krem.”

“Just because I have tits, Chief, doesn't mean I want to see ‘em,” bit back Krem even as he wrapped a steadying arm around Meryell's waist. They were close enough in height that when she turned to look at him with a slight frown, her brain not quite comprehending the words, that her eyes were level with his mouth. “If you insist though, I'll take care of the trouble you caused.”

“That's why I keep you around, Krem de lá Krem,” Bull replied lightly. He then boomed in a loud enough voice that it made Meryell start, “ _Chargers!_ We're done here.”

The noise of the others was left behind as Krem got her moving towards the stairs that led up to the keep and it took Meryell from there until they'd hit the middle of the main hall to realize what had been said. Turning to look at the Tevinter as he maneuvered them into the stairwell that led down to the second floor just outside of Josephine’s office, she said, “Tits?”

“What's that?” asked Krem, his attention mostly focused on getting them down the stairs. “Pay attention to your feet for fuck’s sake.”

She looked down, vision blurring slightly from a mild case of vertigo, but managed to focus enough on stepping down. After a moment she repeated the word.

“Tits.”

“They're nice but tend to be a menace.”

“No, no,” pressed Meryell, “you said you _have_ fucking tits.”

“Aye,” replied Krem, his eye that she could see twitching slightly.

Frowning, she said, “But you're...male.”

“Yes.”

“Explain. My brain is fucked,” moaned Meryell.

Krem just chuckled as they reached the second floor, steering them skillfully around to the stairwell that led down to the third floor. “Maker's bleeding knob, I thought you knew,” he commented wryly with a shake of his head. Then he turned to look at her and stated, “Simplest way to say it: I was born a girl.”

Frowning, Meryell let that mull over in her fuzzy brain for a few minutes before nodding and saying, “Which explains the tits comment.”

“But I'm not a woman,” he went on. Krem lifted a hand to tap his temple with two sharp raps. “Not up here.”

“Oh. Alright then.”

He blinked in surprise, pausing on the stairs to frown at her. “ _Alright then?_ That's seriously it?”

Meryell just shrugged and replied, “You're what you are.” When Krem didn't start moving again, she went on, “Having a cock and balls doesn't make a man a man. Seen plenty who talked big but turned tail and ran. Watched girls in pigtails have bigger balls.”

Shrugging, she finished, “Body parts are just body parts.”

“Maker, you’re easy about this.”

“Mercenaries,” Meryell reminded him with a broad smile that felt more than a little off-kilter. Krem laughed and started them moving again, his laughter fading off into chuckles as he shook his head.

“Right, right. Sometimes I forget you’re a merc brat.”

She just smiled in response, making him shake his head, before they both trailed off into silence as they continued down to the third floor. By the time they made it to the baths Josephine had had installed, Meryell had a little more feeling in her legs and managed to make it inside on her own. Krem said something about clothes that she didn’t quite catch because she was focused on clean skin and hot water.

When she made it out, wrapped up in one of the heavy sheets that were stocked in a cabinet for drying off with, Krem was sitting across the entrance. He’d found a chair from somewhere and had it propped up on it’s back legs against one side of the door with his feet braced against the opposite side of the frame. As she walked over to him, he held up a stack of fresh clothes with a quiet, “Sweet talked one of the lasses into running up to your room. Figured you’d appreciate it.”

“Aren’t you a fucking sweetheart,” teased Meryell, leaning down to peck a light kiss on his cheek. As she took the clothes, she commented, “And guarding the door for me?”

“Chief would kill me if I left you alone after the ringer he put you through,” Krem replied casually, grinning wryly up at her.

Nodding, she hefted the stack of clothes over to a small side table and said, “Speaking of that...that shit the sort of thing Bull always does when one of you lot has your head up your ass? Not that I had my head up mine, mind you.”

He just laughed at that, agreeing, “Of course not, your Worship.”

“Fuck you, Krem.”

Grinning, Krem gave a shrug before he said, “It’s normal. Chief views it as if you’re in enough of a tiff that you aren’t thinking straight, the only thing to do is tire you out of it. Most of us have gone through it once or twice since we joined up; enough that we know what’s up when he calls one. Yours don’t have something like?”

“Singular combat,” replied Meryell as she turned her back to him and dropped the blanket so she could tug on her under things after she dug them out of the middle of the pile of clothes. Normally she wouldn’t have been so brash about doing such a thing but she was dead tired. Any restorative properties of the hot water were quickly wearing off already.

Plus, mercenary company. There were lots of times where there just wasn’t any privacy and that held for big companies like the Fangs and smaller like the Chargers.

“Captain’s got a habit of calling people out on their shit straight up,” she continued as she stepped into the soft breeches, making a mental note to figure out which of the servant girl’s Krem had sweet talked. Whoever she was, she’d picked one of her most comfortable pairs. Turning to look over her shoulder and finding him still sitting in the same position with no visible response to her spat of nakedness, Meryell finished, “He’ll drag folks kicking and screaming into the fighting ring back at our keep if he has to to get the beatings in. And don’t let the seemingly nice Orlesian bullshit fool you for a damned moment. The Captain plays dirty and he’ll kick the knees out from under you if he thinks you fucking deserve it.”

“Have to when dealing with you lot from what I’ve seen,” Krem commented with a snort. He then laughed as she twisted a hand around to flash a rude gesture at him. “Don’t think the Commander would be pleased with us fucking.”

The mention of Cullen’s title had her spine tensing up a little but she was far too tired for it to actually do much of anything. Which was good because that would completely ruin the Iron Bull’s efforts at getting her to fucking relax.

“Speaking of,” muttered Meryell as she tugged the loose tunic that had been brought over her head, smoothing it out over her sides, “let’s go.”  She quickly gathered up her sodden blanket, rubbing it vigorously over her damp hair for a moment before she bundled up her dirty clothes in it and tossed them into one of the bins. Either she’d get her clothes back or she wouldn’t, at the moment she didn’t care one way or the other.

Her borrowed armor and daggers had disappeared at some point while she'd been in the bath, so she assumed that Krem had had someone squirrel it away up to her room.

By the time she was done, Krem was standing up and had the chair tucked out of the way just inside the door. As she approached him, he fell into step beside her with one hand half hovering in case she got a little wavery along the way. They managed to make it up and around the floors without any incidents or running into anyone, however.

At least until they passed through Solas’ rotunda.

The elf leaned over his scaffolding as he was working on another piece, having completed the explosion of the Breach some time ago, and called out, “ _Da’len?_ ”

Stopping, Meryell tilted her head and and scowled up at him. “I’m not in the mood for bullshit, _hahren._ ”

He held up a paint spattered hand in a stopping gesture before saying, “It is nothing of the sort. Merely...an offer.” When she silently stared up at him, Solas sighed before continuing, “I am aware that I was not available when the Commander had his...episode.”

The way he delicately said _episode_ made her wonder if he knew the actual story and not the lie.

“However,” he went on, “if there is a need, I would find no difficulty in aiding either of you.”

Meryell felt the tenseness that had crept into her spine as soon as he’d called out relax a little and she managed a tight smile. “Thank you, Chuckles,” she said softly. “You’re good for an egg.”

“Ah, a thank you and an insult together in but a few breaths. I’m not certain the world can withstand such a thing.”

Krem snorted and she barked a laugh before saying, “Fuck you too, _hahren_.”

Solas chuckled before disappearing from view, calling out, “As you were, _da’len_.” She shook her head and started moving again, heading out the door and onto the walkway that led to Cullen’s tower.

Thanks to Bull’s distraction, it was growing dark now and she could see that someone inside had candles burning both in the lower floor of the office and in the upper loft. Hopefully that person was Gil or Folke and not Cullen.

Somehow she’d ended up stopped in the middle of the walkway and didn’t notice until Krem pressed a hand lightly against her back. “Nervous?” he asked.

Meryell bit down on a reply that included probably more information than the Charger had on what had happened and answered instead with, “Worried about getting sick myself.”

“I think you’re in the clear on that one,” he commented and she turned to look at him with a frown. Krem just gestured towards the door in response, his face revealing nothing. That comment said enough though.

Krem knew _some_ of the truth.

Squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath, Meryell finished the walk to the door and opened it after a brief knock. She didn’t realize until a moment later that she was holding her breath. When it swung open, she blinked several times at the sight of a slightly pale Cullen sitting at his desk working at far less than his normal pace. Rylen stood at his shoulder, talking quietly and moving papers around for his commanding officer on the desk. Opposite them on the other side of the desk was an occupied chair with its back facing the door and she recognized Gil’s strawberry blonde hair cascading over the back.

Any tension she had went out of her at that sight.

Hair down mean Gil was relaxed. It meant everything that _okay._

Krem coughed loudly from behind her then, rapping his gauntleted hand against the open door before calling out, “Got a special delivery for you, Commander!” As Meryell blushed involuntarily as that caught the attention of the other three, he pressed his other hand against the base of her spine again. Leaning forward, he breathed in her ear, “Go get ‘em,” before he saluted flippantly and made his exit.

“Oh, look at you,” chided Gil as she got up, coming towards her with hands outstretched. “You look like someone put you through the ringer.”

“Bull,” replied Meryell as the mage tugged her fully into the office and closed the door. She tried to glance over her shoulder at Cullen but she was shorter than Gil and could only see Rylen’s face. He was smiling though, in that fondly goofy way he had when he and Cullen were acting as more friends than officers, so she took that as a good sign. “I didn’t mean to interrupt…”

“Nonsense.” Gil interrupted her with a quick wave of her hand. “I was just getting ready myself to tell these fine gentlemen that that was quite enough work for the night.”

“Done,” snapped Rylen abruptly and she heard the sound of rustling papers and Cullen’s quiet (but tired) _I don’t think she meant right now, Rylen_. The Starkhaven man just tutted in response and replied with a quiet, “Don’t argue with healers, old man.”

As he gathered up his things and moved towards one of the battlements doors, he called out, “Glad to see you back safe and in one piece from a spar with the Iron Bull, messere. Try and help keep this one in line while you’re back here? I try but he’s just so damned stubborn.”

Laughing, Meryell replied, “I’ll do my best, Rylen. Have a good night.”

“Good night to you. And to you, dear Enchanter!”

“Just Gil, thank you, Captain,” called out Gil over Cullen’s amused grumbling of _No respect_. As the door closed behind him, she turned her head to look at Cullen and asked, “May I?”

There was a long pause in response and Meryell frowned during it, wondering just what she was asking before he replied in a slightly strained tone, “It’s not imperative, is it?”

“No, my dear, it’s not. Nothing that a few days of rest won’t heal on it own.”

“Then...no. Please.”

She felt her throat tighten up and her eyes water in response to the tone of his voice in that sentence. He sounded hurt, like almost begging. Meryell then stepped out from the side of Gil and saw that he was leaning into the desk now, his jaw clenched in one hard line as he clutched at the edge with one hand. Cullen’s eyes met hers, the amber dark and hazy with pain, and he somehow managed a wavering smile.

“Maker,” he muttered lightly, “I’d hoped for a better way to greet you getting back.”

Meryell opened her mouth to reply and the first noise that came out was a cracked sob. She quickly snapped her teeth together and felt Gil’s hand find her back, rubbing gently as she tried to recompose herself. Cullen just watched her from the desk as she did until she could half tearily reply, “You’re still here. That’s enough.”

“Only because of lyrium,” he replied bitterly, his face twisting into a mix of rage and disgust that cast shadows across the whole of his features. Then Cullen flicked his gaze over to Gil as he added, “Though it was necessary. As I keep being reminded.”

“And temporary,” pointed out Gil sternly. She then pointed at him and said, “To bed, Cullen. And you too, my girl.”

Cullen nodded and rose to his feet and Meryell held back a gasp as she watched his arms _shake_ with the effort of pushing himself up from the desk. Part of her wanted to rush to him and help him but she knew he was stubbornly independent just the same as she was at times. The other knew how annoying it could be when you were trying to get by on your own and someone rushed over to help you without prompting. One time too many and you started feeling anger towards them.

“ _Vhen’an’ara_ ,” he intoned softly then, the word making her knees feel a little weak. He then held out a hand, grimacing at it’s obvious quivering, and asked simply, “Please?”

Corypheus _his-fucking-self_ could not have stopped her from crossing that office right then.

Meryell tucked herself against his right side, pushing his chair back across the floor to be fully against the wall so it wouldn’t be in the way. Cullen wrapped his arm tightly around her, pinning her against the fever-warmth of his side, and turned his head to press a kiss against the top of her head. “Maker, I missed you,” he breathed.

“Me too,” she replied softly, turning her face up so they could kiss lightly, just a bare brush of their lips. Then Gil coughed pointedly and she smiled against his lips, feeling his scar pull against her skin. “I think we’re being fucking scolded.”

“I think we may,” he replied with a shaky little laugh. He then gestured towards the ladder that led to the loft and asked, “Shall we?”

It was slow going and full of several heart-in-the-throat moments but they all managed to get up the ladder. Gil stalked around the floor, setting up the brazier in the middle, and flicking her fingers in that little way she had when she was checking already in place spells while they made their way to the bed. Not a stranger to checkups with Gil, Meryell quickly shucked off her tunic and wriggled out of her breeches, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Cullen blushed next to her and stammered a very soft, “You are so beautiful and I can’t do a damned thing.”

“Shh,” chided Meryell, keeping her voice low as she stepped in close to him. “I don’t need anything,” she assured him, running her fingers down the front of the loose tunic he wore. “Just you.”

“Weak me,” he said with a harsh snort.

“ _Alive_ you,” she hissed back, her voice breaking slightly.

Cullen’s face fell then and he started saying, “Meryell, I...” and reaching for her face with shaking hands when Gil coughed politely. He then froze, halfway through the motion, before he reached for his own tunic. As soon as he had it off, letting it fall to the floor next to her abandoned clothes, she had her hands pressed against his skin. He groaned, dropping his head to lean against hers, before growling, “Bed. Or I will fall.”

Nodding, she obliged him by sitting down on the bed and scooting all the way over to the wall. It had become her spot after they’d discovered one night that him sleeping against it with her between him and the edge tended to bring memories and dreams of enclosed spaces. He woke up panicked and twitchy and she’d determined that it was just better to avoid that spot.

As he slid in next to her, pulling the blankets up over them as he did, Gil threw something into the brazier. When it flared up and smelled familiar, she called out, “Is that Evune’s pain cure?”

“Burning prophet’s laurel seems to have helped so far,” replied Gil. She then walked over to the bed and said, “Now...I’ll be back in the morning, same as usual. My alarms are still in place as well, so I don’t have to recast them, Cullen. They aren’t bothering you, correct?”

“Right,” he replied as he rolled to his left side and pulled Meryell over into him. She curled into his heat in response, frowning as he added, “I’m used to them now.”

Gil nodded sharply then said, “I’ll lock the doors behind me. Good night, my dears.”

“Night, Gil,” called Meryell alongside Cullen’s soft _Good night_. She waited until she saw the light from below blink out and heard the locks on the doors click before she turned her full attention to the man next to her. Tracing her finger lightly across the lines of his chest, she choked on a sob and said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

He pulled her fully into him in response, practically molding their bodies together. Their legs tangled before he crashed their mouths together, teeth snapping against each other awkwardly, and kissed her as if he wanted to take her very breath away. He poured the whole of himself into it, fingers stroking nonsense patterns across her bare skin as he held her hips tightly. “ _Ar lath ‘ma_ ,” he murmured against her lips when he finally stopped, his voice shaking as much as his fingers were.

Then Cullen stroked hairs back from her forehead and whispered, “I wouldn’t have wanted you to see. It wasn’t...I wasn’t kind those first days after.”

“Cullen,” Meryell said insistently, wrangling her left arm up so she could cup his stubbled cheek in her hand. The hairs were still short, she noticed, and certainly not enough to have grown during the time since he’d fallen ill. He had obviously trusted someone enough to help him shave since his hands weren’t steady enough for the task. “If you think for one fucking minute that I wouldn’t be here through shit, that I wouldn’t plow on through any sort of nugshit you could throw at me, you’re a damned fool.”

He pursed his lips together into a white line and looked down, his eyes focusing somewhere along her collar bones. “I don’t,” he began softly before letting out a huff of breath. Then he lifted his head to meet her eyes as he breathed, “I don’t want you to see me like that.”

“Like what, _vhen'an_?”

“Weak.”

The word was spat out bitterly and she shifted her hand so her thumb could brush over the scar on his lip. “Does this make you weak?” she asked.

Cullen frowned and replied softly,” No?”

Meryell nodded and moved her hand from his face, brushing her fingers across another scar, old and faded, that broke the skin across the main muscle of his chest. “Does this?”

“No.”

“This one?” she asked as she found another around the muscle of his upper arm, obviously made by the blade of a sword. Without waiting for an answer, she slid her hand back down to where an old burn scar sat in a near perfect circle near his left hip, almost hidden underneath him with how he was laying. “Or this?”

“No,” he answered again. Then he caught her hand in his and she could feel the tremors running through him at the direct contact. “What’s the point of this, Meryell?”

Freeing her hand, Meryell briefly touched them again - starting from the last and finishing with her fingers brushing over his lips - before she whispered, “If these scars do not make you weak, Cullen, then why are you under the impression that the ones _here_ do?” She moved her hand up his face as she asked the last, lightly tapping her fingers against his temple to indicate that she was talking about his nightmares and the lyrium and everything else that haunted him.

He stared at her, mouth slightly open, and she leaned forward to press a kiss against his bottom lip as she moved her hand to his shoulder.

“You survived Kinloch and Kirkwall. You are _not_ fucking weak.”

Cullen closed his eyes at that, letting out a breath before he murmured, “I’m not certain I did sometimes. Survive. I wasn’t…” He stopped and shook his head against the pillow before he brought his hand up from her hip to cup her cheek. As he opened his eyes, the amber almost fever bright, he whispered, “I’m not certain that man could have loved you. And I’m terrified of how much of him is left.”

Her heart felt like it was clenched in a vise at his words. Meryell reached her hand back up to tangle her fingers in his hair, all curls now that twisted around her digits as if they wanted to grasp and never let go. She pulled herself towards him across what little space had opened up, hooking a leg over his hip to help hold herself there. As he let out an explosive little breath, she kissed him hard, wanting him to not think for a moment, to just _feel_. When his arm finally moved around her, a broad palm pressing against the bare curve of her spine to hold her against him, she knew she’d gotten somewhere.

Meryell kept the kiss going until it trailed off naturally, leaving them breathing hard and his interest more than a little obvious against the inside of her thigh. She didn’t move away then, however, choosing instead to cling to him and crane her neck to kiss the top part of his scar and then the tip of his nose.

“That man,” she intoned softly, “deserves to be loved as much as the man you are now does. He deserves to know he is _worth loving_ , that he is not merely a sword in the hands of the fucking Chantry. He is _not_ a weapon.”

She pressed her forehead against his cheek as she breathed, “And the one before, the young man from the Tower, he should know that it was not his fault what happened to him. He should have a shoulder to lean on instead of having to carry on on his own. He should have _comfort_ , real comfort and not the temporary given by lyrium.”

“Meryell,” he tried to interrupt but she lifted her head, sealing her mouth over his to swallow whatever words he was trying to say. She had to get this out, all of it, before it burst out of her chest.

“I would love them all,” she breathed, meeting his eyes, “because they are all _you_. You, Cullen Stanton Rutherford. My Commander. My friend. My _vhen’an’ara_. My _vhen'an_.”

“How?” he asked, his voice cracking. Cullen’s hand trembled against her back and this time it was from emotion and not purely the withdrawal. “Maker’s breath, how can you say such a thing, knowing the things I’ve done?”

Meryell uncurled her fingers from his hair and brought them down to touch his lower lip lightly as she said, “I am no shrinking violet, no fucking maiden locked in some virtuous tower. I’ve killed, Cullen. There is blood on my hands and not all of it was for a job. You _know_ that. Does that make me less? Does that diminish what you feel?”

“ _No_. Maker, no.”

“We try to be better than before,” she went on, brushing her fingers across his stubbled chin. “Maybe we fail but the trying is what’s important.”

“What,” he began before his voice broke slightly. Cullen looked at her helplessly before crushing her against him, burying his face against her shoulder and brokenly asking, “What if I _can’t_?”

She clung to him tightly, turning her head to kiss his cheek and neck and whatever she could reach, her heart aching as she replied, “We pick up the pieces and try again.”

“I don’t...Maker, Andraste, I don’t want to _lose you_.”

“I’m not going fucking _anywhere_ ,” hissed Meryell. “You hear me, Cullen? Not _anywhere_.”

“ _No_ ,” he hissed firmly, jerking his head up and away. He shook his head then Cullen hissed, “Not lose you physically. Lose you up here.” When he freed his hand to tap two fingers against his temple, she realized. He wasn’t talking about losing her like he nearly had at Haven.

He was talking about the lyrium _taking_ it from him.

“You won’t,” she assured, pulling him back towards her. He stiffly stayed where he was for a long moment before he came, tucking securely against her again with his lips pressed against her shoulder.

“You can’t make that promise, Meryell.”

“No,” Meryell replied as she curled her fingers into his hair again, “I can’t promise that _you_ won’t forget. I’m not fool enough to think I can beat that fucking shit if it chooses to take your mind. But I _can_ promise that I will be there. That I will help you remember. And when I can’t, I won’t let you rot in some street or secluded keep. Not while I have breath.”

Cullen let out a broken noise into her shoulder, his own quaking with whatever emotion he was feeling, before he breathed, “I don’t deserve you.”

 _I don’t think I deserve you sometimes too_ , she thought but her reply was to turn her head and kiss his cheek, saying, “You’re wrong, _vhen'an_.”

“I’m not certain about that,” he murmured.

“ _Trust me_ ,” insisted Meryell, closing her eyes as she pressed her cheek against his. “If you have to trust me in one thing, trust me in this: that what you have done and what has been done to you doesn’t make you _less._ ”

He made some kind of noise in response that she couldn’t make out and kept going, her voice dropped to a whisper now.

“You said you have faith in me,” she intoned softly. “That we could find answers. That we could defeat Corypheus. That I wasn’t doing a colossal fuckup of the whole Inquisition.”

Cullen snorted at that and Meryell smiled.

She then whispered, “I may not believe in the Maker or Andraste but...I believe in you. You can do this and come out on the other side. And you can tell that fucking shit right where it can _damned well stick it_ after it’s all over _._ ”

That made him laugh and he was pulling away from her just enough that they could see each other, a faint smile on his face. “You’re getting better at your inspiring speeches,” he commented wryly.

“I’ve gotten practice in the field,” she replied with a light laugh. Then she reached up to brush heavy locks of curls away from his forehead and said, “I meant every word.”

He nodded, his expression shifting into something like dread and fear before he closed his eyes and let out a breath. Just like that, his face relaxed, and when he opened his eyes it was to shake his head in her direction.

“I don’t deserve you,” Cullen repeated. Then he leaned forward to kiss her forehead before he settled heavily back down into the bed, drawing her back into him. As she tucked her head underneath his chin, he softly added, “But I am glad the Maker gave me the chance to _try_ to be a man that does.”

Meryell kissed the pulse point of his throat in reply and breathed, “Just try. My _mamae_ always used to say it’s all He ever asked of us.”

“I think I can do that.”

She smiled into the skin of his throat for a moment before saying, “We should sleep.” When he went stiff, she added, “I love you.”

 _Nightmares and all_ , she thought, not wanting to put them into words for fear of them never getting the rest that they both needed. _Lyrium and guilt and long hours and distrust of magic. It's all you._

Somehow those three words made him relax and Cullen murmured, “I love you,” as his arms tightened around her. Meryell closed her eyes contentedly in his grasp and finally let the exhaustion that had been dogging her sweep her under after his breathing fell into an easy pattern that heralded sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven/Elvhen Translations**
> 
> Su an’banal i’ma - To the void with you  
> Fenedhis lasa - go fuck a wolf's dick


	38. “Cole. It is rude to pluck things from the minds of others.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cole helps Meryell feel better about the situation that's going on and she, in turn, helps Cullen as best she can when he has an angry outburst in response to everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy mid-NaNo week, everyone! I'm actually working on this fic for NaNo this year (mostly due to nothing original I wanted to write on and not wanting to lose my plot here) and I am _behind_. By like...10k or so.
> 
> The next chapter is mostly done though so, hey, that's something yeah?
> 
> Also, random, I made a timeline of events so I could plant down when exactly everything happens in this story and going by the miles per inch of the world map from the RPG book and how long it takes to go between all of these places, there is no flippin' way all of this shit takes place in a year (Origins makes sense in a year, it takes place in just Ferelden). Chapter 29 marked a year passing for this story, so it's now 9:42. August of 9:42 specifically as of this chapter.

“Burning, wanting, yearning. He wants but pulls away, fearing that his touch will blemish and break. She is _beautiful_ and he is _broken_ and his chains are tight around his throat again, choking, choking…”

“Cole,” Meryell breathed as she leaned on the battlements wall outside of Cullen's office. “ _Sathan._ No more.”

Next to her the spirit in a young man's gangly form shifted nervously before saying softly, “He thinks of you when it burns in him, fever bright and potent.”

“ _Cole_ ,” she hissed, glaring out at the peaks of the Frostbacks. “It is rude to pluck things from the minds of others.”

“I know but...it is to help.”

“I know, _da’lath’in_ , but Cullen's thoughts should be his own.”

She saw Cole shake his head out of the corner of her eye and turned to watch him frown. His bright eyes were sad as he whispered, “I don't understand. He wishes to share them, wants you to _know_. Yet he stutters and stills his tongue, swallowing the words back down, because he fears losing all. How will you know his words if he cannot speak them?”

Meryell shook her head and turned away from the view, leaning her hips back against the stone wall. She patted the stone to her right before crossing her arms, waiting until he settled next to her and mirrored her position.

Ever since he'd quite literally popped into their lives, she'd done her best to be kind to Cole. She'd always been a good judge of character (except where bed mates were involved at times) and he had never seemed threatening. Otherworldly and eerie, yes, but never anything to fear. One conversation had revealed how utterly _innocent_ the spirit was to the world beyond the Veil, even with the fact that he had blood on his hands. After that, she and Varric had made their own personal little pact to help the spirit learn, to teach him how the world worked despite all of Chuckles protests.

She even tended to curse _less_ around him, which was a feat she couldn't even manage with the Fangs littles at most times. Though any child that fell into that lot had been utter hellions ever since she'd joined up.

“We talked about this,” she said gently. “It's very rude to tell people's secrets.”

“You do, if there is coin or need. And the Nightingale hunts them like shiny baubles, clutching them to her until they are ready to loose. Like her finest arrows to pierce a heart.”

“But we don't speak them where others can hear, do we?” she asked.

Cole just shrugged. “Not unless it is needed.” He then went on, “I do not understand. Why will he not tell you when he wants to?”

Sighing, Meryell replied, “People are just strange like that, _da’lath’in_. We have to trust that they'll tell us in their own time.”

He frowned at that then ducked his head, his face lost behind the wide brim of his ridiculous hat. “I've been trying to help.”

Letting out a breath, she shifted over just enough so she could lean her head against his shoulder. He was taller than her but not quite at Cullen's height, more along Dorian’s level than anyone else. “ _Baba_ told me you helped save him when the attack happened.”

“You would have been sad.”

“Yes,” Meryell agreed softly, trying to not let her voice break and failing damnably, “I would have been sad.”

“I keep her away too.” When she looked up at him in confusion, lifting her head from his shoulder, Cole explained, “The elf girl with demon’s eyes. She haunts his steps, stalking his dreams, whispering cruelty in his ear. He tries to remember she is dead, that he felt her body grow cold in his arms, but sometimes he still forgets. Forgets that there is now and instead there is only the Tower. Bleeding, burning, gnawing need and want, and the screams. So loud and all there is is dying but he lives and they will not take him. They scar and cut and burn instead and he is hurting, wanting, failing, wounded all over again.”

She went still at his words and wanted partly to weep. Cullen never spoke of his nightmares despite having them frequently, preferring to keep them to himself rather than share what haunted him. She'd guessed that Kath Surana would be a feature amongst them but never had confirmation until now.

And that he felt he failed...fuck, how she knew that feeling.

Then a thought occurred to her and she asked, “Cole...it's not a true demon, is it?”

He shook his head and Meryell breathed a heavy sigh of relief. There wasn't an inch of magic in her bones but she knew a fucking lot of details about it thanks to Folke and the other mages. Someone like Cullen, who'd already been touched by demons and who bore the mental scars from who knew how many, was a ripe target for another. They couldn't take a non-mage in the Fade so far as she was aware but they could influence and feed off of the reactions.

It was a small mercy to know that he didn't have one stalking him.

Resting her head back against his shoulder, she murmured, “Thank you, Cole. For helping.”

“You worry,” observed the spirit softly.

“I worry about a lot of things, _da’lath’in._ ”

“Am I worthy of their belief?” whispered Cole, his voice pitched low but still carrying its eerie tone. “Of their faith? Can I be more than thief, mercenary, rabbit, knife-ear, bitch, whore? Failing, taunting, memory of a hunt gone wrong, a common theft turned to chase and murder. Hot blood on the hands. _Murderer_ . _Killer_ . Quiet knives in the dark, fingers finding, grasping, slipping away with prize clutched tight. Is this all I am? No, not all. His mouth on my throat, scar and stubble scratching skin, teeth nipping, heat in my belly. Love. This is love and I chase it, fear it, crave it, but am I _worthy of it_?”

Meryell was shaking by the time his voice trailed off, too shocked and appalled by what he had said to interrupt. “Cole,” she began but he then abruptly moved, wrapping his arm around her.

“She returns, our Inquisitor,” he intoned. “Blessed leader. Herald. She is kind, lovely, I never expected a mercenary to care. How dare that man have called her those things? Oh, poor thing, worried about her Commander. Sweet, young love.”

She blushed and started to open her mouth again but he kept going.

“She'll sort him out, she will, break him out of this rut. Oh, my poor girl, to have to deal with this too. Boss’ll be fine, she’s got this. Maker, keep them both safe and do not take this from them. She is but a _child_ , could she bear the losing of him? I hope she can get through to Curly, he can be a prick but I hate seeing him like this.”

Her mouth dropped open because the first words he’d uttered had been disconnected and distant, those of people who knew her only as Herald and Inquisitor. The others, though...they were her friends. Her family. And as she listened she could recognize them in turn: Rylen. Gil. Bull. Cassandra. Solas since he was the only one to call her child. Hawke...or Varric?

“Swears has got this, I believe in her,” Cole went on and she smiled. Hawke then for the first. “I should have pressed harder, said something when I noticed he didn’t look well. Should I look quietly for a new Commander, dare I? I fear for you, my girl, fear for if this goes the wrong way. Quiet feelers spreading out, seeking answers on the blue, find them, _find them_ , we will not lose them both.” Blackwall. Josephine. Arnald. Leliana? Maferath’s festering prick, if she really was looking for answering, to try and weed out information on lyrium from the Chantry or whoever she could find, she _owed_ the _el'u’verelan_. Fuck did she owe her.

Cole finally finished, “Quiz doesn’t need this friggin' arse-nut’s bothering, best keep him away. Perhaps I will bother them both tomorrow, Maker knows that Cullen needs to get out of that tower.” As she smiled because those two were definitely Sera and Dorian before noticing that the spirit was frowning. Before she could open her mouth, he tilted his head to the side as he spoke several harsh, guttural sounding words before saying softly, “He thinks strangely. I hear the meaning but it’s weaving, wriggling, winding, turning about itself until it blends back into the words.”

“ _Baba_ ,” she supplied with a smile. “He always thinks in the Chasind tongue. Habit.” She didn’t add that the Fangs’ resident Fade specialist, Miriam, was of the opinion that her father’s sporadic sense of when bad things were going to happen was because he was just a little bit Fade-touched. She wasn’t sure why that wouldn’t enable Cole to pick up on his surface thoughts but it might be an explanation.

He nodded before closing his eyes, letting out a gentle breath, before he said, “Worried, hands plucking at herbs and plants over a stained table. Worry for his daughter. Worry for his son. Will it be enough? He hopes, even prays to the old gods in silent whispers, that it is.”

Meryell let out an involuntary gasp at the emotions he picked up on because she hadn’t been aware of Folke’s view on Cullen. Did he really see him like that? Did he really think that this thing they had was going to last? Obviously he must because he was worried enough over things to be praying to the Chasind gods, beliefs he’d largely abandoned years ago. And to call Cullen _his son_...

“Cole,” she began softly and he smiled down at her.

“That was rude,” he said, his tone self-scolding.

“Yes, _da’lath’in_ , it was,” Meryell agreed. Then she shifted around so she could hug him from the front and whispered, “Thank you.”

He hesitantly lifted his arms to wrap them around her in turn as he noted, “It is confusing when listening is bad then good.”

Laughing, she pulled away from him just slightly so she could look up at him. “People are strange like that too, Cole. But this...it helped.”

“I helped?”

“You helped,” she confirmed with a gentle smile. Cole _beamed_ down at her for a moment before he lifted his head, turning it towards the closed door of the tower with his brow slightly furrowed.

“Revulsion, resentment, _rage_ , why this, why now, _why_ ?” he intoned softly before he shifted his hands, gripping her shoulders tightly as his eyes went wide. “He _needs_ you. Needs steady words and a shoulder under his. A shield arm because his fumbles. Needs warmth and love to drown out the cold song.”

Meryell flinched at the reminder of the whole reason that she’d been standing on the battlements outside Cullen’s tower in the first place - he hadn’t wanted her to watch him take the dose of lyrium Gil had come in to carefully prepare, not even when she’d reminded him that she’d watched others do the same. She lifted her hands to cover Cole’s for a moment before breathing, “Okay. Will you...are you…”

Suddenly at a loss for words, she felt his slim fingers squeeze her shoulders. “I watch. I help,” intoned Cole with a smile. Smiling, Meryell squeezed his fingers in turn then pulled away from him, heading towards the tower and nearly reached the door before she looked back. When she did, the battlement was as empty as it had been when she’d come outside, only a lone soldier making rounds further down between another set of towers in sight. Shaking her head, she opened the tower door and stopped when she saw Cullen was standing at his desk.

Clad in only trousers and a long-sleeved shirt (because now with the lyrium he had what seemed like chills at times) with his coat wrapped around him, he stood staring hard down at something she couldn't see on the desk. As she watched, his face twisted, brows furrowing deep as a snarl curled his lip, showing off teeth that were bared. He suddenly let out a bellow of _rage_ and twisted, sweeping the object of his ire off the desk as well as the pile of papers that had blocked it from her view. It shattered against the wall to her right, wooden splinters and shards of glass flying as the remnants fell to the stone floor.

Meryell saw the top, separated from the rest by the force of its flight, and knew instantly what it was by the image burned into the wood alone. A woman in the simple Ferelden style, clad in armor with the hilt of a sword clasped between her hands. She'd seen it and it’s like before in other lyrium kits that she'd helped steal for their templars, purely for the tools within so the healers could correctly craft the lyrium some of them required to keep going.

Blessedly, she noted, only the tools had apparently been inside. Either he'd already surrendered what supply he’d had left after Kirkwall or Gil had forced him to hand over anything that had been left in the kit.

“Maker's breath!” he gasped as his angry eyes - the amber _burned_ , like the still hot coals of a low burning fire - followed the flight of the kit and found her. Instantly all of the rage and fire seeped out of him, his shoulders slumping. As he reached up for the back of his neck, Cullen began, “Maker, I…”

“No,” she said firmly, stepping into the office and closing the door. She threw the bolt behind her and crossed to the others to do the same to them. Then she went to him where he still stood behind the desk. He refused to look at her, keeping his chin tucked to his chest, and she seated herself on one side of the desk. Meryell reached out for his hands and pushed him gently backwards so he would, hopefully, sink into the desk chair right behind him.

As he collapsed, she shuffled across the desk, swinging a leg around his knees so she could pin him into it by bracing the toes of her boots on the edge of the seat. Cullen's eyes flicked up at her for a brief second before darting away again as he licked his lips, opening his mouth to speak.

Meryell immediately narrowed her eyes and hissed, “If there is about to be an apology coming from your mouth, I don't want to fucking hear it.” Judging by the way his teeth snapped shut, it had been going to be just that.

Scooting forward to the edge of the desk, Meryell leaned forward to brace one hand on the arm of his chair while she reached for his chin with the other. Gently she lifted it until his eyes met hers and breathed, “You have no reason to be shameful, _vhen’an_.”

His lips curled at that, eyes flaring, and he growled, “Losing my temper isn't shameful? What if it was with one of my men?” Then his voice broke slightly as he asked, “What if it were with _you_? If I...Maker, if I ever hurt you…”

“Cullen,” she interrupted, “don’t borrow trouble.”

He scowled at that then turned his face away, the lines of his throat and jaw abruptly tight with tension. Meryell let him slip away from her grip, shifting her other hand to the arm on the other side of the chair, and just watched him for a moment. Cullen stared off into some distant place for a long moment until she breathed, “ _Vhen’an_...Cullen, please don’t push me away.”

That made him flinch and Cullen turned back towards her, his face abruptly strained with some tension that she couldn’t quite place. After a moment he let out a breath and met her eyes, the emotion in them showing her what that tension was.

Uncertainty. Doubt. Self-recrimination.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. The only reason she probably caught it _was_ because elves had keener ears humans. “It was hard enough the first time but the second…”

As his voice trailed off, she moved, carefully lifting one of his hands and folding both of hers around it. Then she asked, “Do you want to be free of it?”

Cullen looked up at her, his mouth slightly open and eyes wide, before he softly replied, “ _Yes_.”

Meryell nodded then said, “Trust Gil. She can do this.”

“It isn’t...Maker, it isn’t that. I remember her from the Tower now and, besides saying she’d resort to blood magic, there isn’t anything she’s done recently that would make me distrust her.”

“Then what is it?”

He clenched his jaw and she laced the fingers of her left hand with his right and reached out to cup his cheek with her own right. “Talk to me, Cullen,” she urged gently.

“That’s just it,” he growled a moment later. “I _don’t_ talk. And I can’t... _fuck_.” Cullen shook his head after the curse before pressing his face into her palm, closing his eyes as he did so. “It’s hard,” he murmured, “to tell someone the things that hurt. I learned...after everything in the Tower, I learned to keep them to myself. The mages, the other templars, they were different, they were important. I wasn’t.”

“Do you still think that?” asked Meryell. “That you aren’t important?”

Cullen chuckled darkly before he replied, “In the grand scheme of the world, I don’t think any of us are terribly important. Things might fall apart for a while but eventually they’d come back to an even keel one way or another. Minus you and the rifts but that’s just right now.” He then let out a sigh as he opened his eyes and looked up at her. “But, no, I don’t. That doesn’t mean that it isn’t still hard with someone else.”

Tilting her head to the side, she asked, “With me?”

“It’s mostly easy.”

She nodded, knowing that he didn’t like to discuss his past - not that which was beyond Kirkwall anyway. “And when it’s not?” Meryell inquired softly.

He blinked at her before saying with a slight shrug, “I….try. You deserve the truth, even when I can’t say it.”

Catching onto that line, she curled her fingers so her nails scratched against the stubble on his cheek and said, “So...what about the truths you deserve, _vhen’an_ ? That this can end? That there are things Gil and _baba_ and the others can try to sooth the aches and pains? You’re worthy of knowing if there’s a chance.”

Pausing, Meryell leaned forward across the space between them to press a light kiss against his mouth. Only he pulled away, slight panic in his eyes and she frowned in confusion, certain that there was obvious hurt showing on her face because he instantly stammered out an apology. “I’m sorry,” he intoned softly, his voice shaking a little. “I don’t...the lyrium…”

“ _Vhen’an_ ,” she said sternly, interrupting him. “I don’t _care_. That won’t make me not want to kiss you.” He looked dubious at her words but this time stayed still when she moved forward again for a kiss. His lips pressed back against hers as they connected, eager and needy, but she only let them taste of her, pulling away before either of them could get too drawn in.

“Talk to Gil,” she breathed. A thought suddenly occurred to her and she asked, “Or...would it be easier if I left Cassandra?”

Cullen went still at the suggestion and asked, “Then who would guard your back?”

“Cass may be my current preference due to how long we’ve been running the fuck around together but there _are_ several other warriors who could be a damage sink for me. Bull or Blackwall would both be good replacements or I could probably even coax Astrid or Bernard into going. There’s even Rhiryd, who I fought with in the Mire, though shit knows I’d have a hard time prying him away from Sister Cecilia again. Or, fuck, Dragos has been itching to get some action.” Meryell shook her head as she finished, “I have plenty of choices for who can guard my back and I trust them all. What I’m asking is who do _you_ need, Cullen? Who, besides me, can you bare the truth to?”

“Besides you?” he asked with a slightly wry smile.

Meryell smiled back and said fondly, “Alas, _vhen’an_ , I can’t be here all the time. I wish I could or that you could be with me but we’re sort of fucked on that score.”

“Yes, I remember.” He then frowned seriously before asking, “You’d really feel safe with someone else at your back?”

“I’ll feel safe if I know _you_ are taken care of.”

Cullen frowned at that and she was pretty certain he was going to call bullshit on it but he didn’t. Instead he just nodded after a moment, his features relaxing, and softly said, “I have missed her while she’s been out with you. Cassandra isn’t afraid to call me out.”

“Fantastic bullshit detector,” jibed Meryell, flashing him a crooked grin. “It’s settled then. I’ll figure out who’s coming with me before the war meeting tomorrow morning. Maybe I’ll spar a few rounds with all of them tonight and see who’s the best fit.”

He nodded then asked, “Not...not right now, right?”

Shaking her head, she replied, “Not right now.”

“Good. I want…” Cullen trailed off before letting out a huff of breath, abruptly freeing his hand from hers and showing a surprising amount of steadiness as he grasped her hips to lift her up off the desk. Meryell squeaked in surprise as he settled her sideways across his lap then laughed after he kissed her. He trailed his fingers up over her hip, just barely dipping below the fall of her tunic, and breathed, “I want you here, _vhen’an_.”

Meryell smiled and settled her legs over the arm of the chair before she leaned against his right side, pillowing her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her in return, callused hands pushing up her tunic at the back to palm her skin, and she softly returned, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He breathed a sigh of relief at that and she could feel pressure drain out of him with that expelling of air. Then he kissed her forehead before he laid his head against hers. They sat there for a long moment before he grunted and said, “The headaches are worse. Folke’s tea stopped working and so did Gil’s potions.”

Abruptly her heart swelled that he actually did as she asked, giving her something that bothered him, and smiled. Lifting a hand to stroke his cheek, she said, “I’ll let Gil know. There’s other formulas.”

Cullen just nodded and she cupped his cheek, lifting her head as she gently pressed so he would turn towards her. As he did, Meryell kissed him before she said firmly, “I love you.”

His cheeks flushed a little and his eyes darted away in a nervous way for a moment before meeting hers again but there was a boyish tilt to his smile as he returned, “I love you.”

As she leaned her head back against his shoulder, relaxing as he sighed contentedly and pressed his cheek to the top of her head, Meryell quietly thought, _Maker, Andraste...if you actually exist, you’d best not fucking cock this up. I know life’s not fair and it sure as shitting tits isn’t easy but he doesn’t deserve this. He’s a good man, despite all his protestations._

_And so help me, if he dies, I swear I’ll do one fucking better than Corypheus or any ancient Magister and I will find you if I have to tear down the Fade myself. You fucking owe him one for the shit he’s seen, I say. Pay the fuck up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven/Elvhen Translations:**
> 
>  
> 
> sathan - please
> 
> da’lath’in - little heart. An endearment used to describe someone who is emotional, carries their heart on their sleeve, is very empathetic, or very sympathetic to the plights of others. Typically used to describe a young person, but can be used for people of all ages who meet the description.


	39. “We've secured a way in?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell and the advisors meet meet to discuss new plans since the Inquisitor's unexpected return to Skyhold as well as the upcoming talks at the Winter Palace. After having a short talk with Meryell and reassuring her of some things, Cullen finally has the talk he's been needing to have with Folke and Gil about his renewed need to take lyrium.

“You wish for me to what?” asked Cassandra, looking almost personally taken aback. Cullen involuntarily ducked his head a little because he was the only one who knew _why_ Meryell was springing this on the other woman. He did, however, stop himself from rubbing the back of his neck.

Not that it helped apparently. Leliana, who was standing at the end of the table while he and Josephine took up more of the center, was watching him with a slightly arched eyebrow. The sort of eyebrow that said _I know what's going on here_. For a moment he thought she was going to speak up since she and Cassandra were fairly close, but instead she winked at him and looked back down at her work.

He was suddenly certain he'd gone crazy from the renewed lyrium in his body. Merely on the fact that he had _never_ seen the spymaster wink before.

Cullen's attention was abruptly dragged back to the other side of the table as Meryell said in a somewhat soothing tone, “I want you to stay here in Skyhold, Cass. Just for a little while.”

Cassandra looked confused and asked, “Have I…” She then paused, straightening up before she finished, “Have I done something to offend, Inquisitor?”

“What? Offend? _No!_ Maker's bleeding crotch, Cass, that's not what this is about at all.”

“Then what is it?” demanded the warrior.

“I admit,” piped up Josephine, “that I am also intrigued by what is going on.”

Meryell flashed him a helpless look, obviously not wanting to talk about it because _he_ wasn't comfortable with the subject. He knew Cassandra though and she would keep bull-headedly rushing on until she found out what was going on. It was what made her such a good Seeker of Truth.

Smiling slightly, he closed his still shaking hands around the hilt of his sword, which he refused to part with even if he left his armor off at Gil’s insistence of not stressing his body. “They know a general idea of what happened,” he said softly as he caught her eyes.

She exhaled as he saw a triumphant, knowing smile flashed briefly across Leliana’s mouth, her hunch proved right. Then Meryell turned to Cassandra while gesturing towards him as she explained, “I want you to stay for Cullen. You're...fuck, you know you're one of the people he trusts, that he can...talk to. I _can't_ be here so…”

For a moment she trailed off, looking at a loss for words, then their eyes caught again. She smiled at him as she finished, “I'm asking you to be here for him instead.”

There was silence for a long moment until Josephine whispered a broken little _Oh_ and Cullen turned his head to see the ambassador wiping tears from her eyes. She smiled when she caught him and he flushed before turning his attention back to Cassandra, more curious as to her response to everything. The woman was silent for a long moment, just looking at Meryell, then she cut her eyes over to his.

They had known each other for long enough that he had a fairly decent read on her expressions. The one she was currently wearing was a mix of _Is this true?_ and _Do you really want me to hand her safety off to another?_

When he nodded, she narrowed her eyes and tilted her head slightly forward in obvious consideration of his answer. Then she turned back to Meryell and said, “I will do so. Though perhaps next time it would be wiser to have this discussion _before_ the meeting rather than during.”

“Didn't think you'd be so fucking pushy to go back out into the muck with me,” grumbled Meryell good naturedly.

“I do not mind doing so but...I admit a break may be nice. Until you return from Val Royeaux, at least.”

He noticed Meryell flinch at that and began, “Actually, I believe the plan is now to deal with matters in the Storm Coast after she leaves from meeting with Enchanter Vivienne.” When Cassandra looked slightly appalled, he lightly joked, “I believe you have a few books to catch up on, don't you?”

As soon as the warrior blushed, Meryell grinned brightly at him before she leaned forward onto the war table. That motion drew everyone's attention to it and back to the business at hand.

“So,” she drawled, “since we're back at Skyhold, Jader’s probably the easier route to get back to Val Royeaux. Sorry about moving those soldiers to Highever.”

Cullen just shook his head as he replied, “We didn't have a presence there anyway and we should have. I'll just pull my men back to join back up with those in the Storm Coast and Leliana can send in some more...subtle resources.”

He didn't state the silent thought that the only reason she hadn't used the resources he’d pushed into Highever was because of him. She had enough on her shoulders without him piling unnecessary guilt on top of everything and he was willing to admit that he'd needed her with him.

The spymaster laughed, bright and bell-like, and said, “I will gladly step in, Commander. And that is a fair point that we should have some sort of presence in the cities, particularly given the rising word of these Venatori of Corypheus’.”

Meryell stiffened across the table and asked, “The cultists?”

“One and the same.”

“Right. What'd I say about them not just disappearing all nice and fucking quiet like.” She grumbled the full sentence to herself in an undertone and he frowned before she let out a huff of breath. “So...Jader. Josie, you think we could arrange for the same ship to take us?”

Next to him the ambassador straightened up and picked up a quill from the war table, dipping it briefly into a pot of ink before she wrote a note upon the papers stacked on her board. “I will not know for certain until I reach out, Inquis- Meryell. We shall see.” Josephine then frowned and asked, “Would your Captain allow me to borrow his second again? She actually knew quite a few reputable ship captains and we may be able to find something swifter working through both of us.”

Meryell shrugged and Cullen chose to reply instead, “I believe he is going to aid Rylen today in the training yard, Josephine. You can either catch him then or I can inquire for you.” He noticed Cassandra twitch in obvious surprise at his comment and smiled tensely in response, already guessing what she was thinking. “I’m not having anything to do with the training myself right now. Merely observing to keep an extra eye on things.”

“Because you get bored,” chided Meryell with a fond smile. She was rather well versed by now in how restless he could get sometimes when he didn't have a focus. He snorted at her reply and answered before thinking about what he was saying.

“Only when you aren’t around to distract me, _vhen’an_.”

“Is that Elven?” gasped Josephine, sounding far more delighted about it than he really thought she should be. He felt the back of his neck heat up as soon as she asked the question and this time he couldn’t stop himself from lifting a hand to rub there awkwardly. Then the ambassador made it all the more embarrassing when she practically squealed, “That’s absolutely _adorable_.”

Part of him wanted to sink into the floor in embarrassment as Leliana said lightly, “Josie, dear, you’re making him blush.”

“Wasn’t that a goal of yours at one point?” asked the Antivan woman slyly in reply.

The spymaster just laughed before replying, “That was before he blushed so easily at the mere mention of the Herald’s name.”

Meryell blinked at him across the table and Cullen just shrugged, smiling sheepishly. He’d never related to her that during the slow growth of their relationship from friend to something more, he had been teased mercilessly by his two fellow advisors. Josephine had just been decidedly more kind - and subtle - about it than the spymaster. Of course, Leliana’s teasing hadn’t begun until after her scolding by the ambassador, but she’d taken to it easily once she’d seen it happening. He’d been a little confused but one quiet inquiry with Josephine one day as to the sudden change reminded him of their spymaster’s depths.

She was, honestly, a bit of a romantic behind all of that shadowy steel she wrapped herself in. Not to mention, as Josephine had reminded him in a low voice, she had loved Warden Amell during the Blight.

After Haven, he’d worried a little about how she would look at him, given that the person he loved had come back from certain death and hers had lost his life in the sacrifice to save Thedas. He’d asked her to stay behind once in one of those early meetings of the first two months at Skyhold to ask that very question and she’d just smiled before telling him, “I will not spit on another’s happiness, Commander. No matter how I feel about a person, I could never hope that they might lose that which keeps them moving forward.”

He hadn’t honestly known how to respond to that; an apology for what she'd lost didn't seem like it was half enough. Not when the thought of losing Meryell made his breath catch and his heart feel like it was seized up in a vise, made bile rise in the back of his throat as his stomach roiled with a sensation that was utterly different from how withdrawal made him feel sometimes. To actually _go through it_...Maker, he hoped to never know that sensation. At least not until they were both old and gray. Instead he'd merely nodded, certain she could tell he'd been rendered speechless, and quietly bid her a good day.

Cassandra made a disgusted noise before saying, “Enough. There is work to be done.”

“Yes,” Josephine said quickly, picking up from where the Seeker’s voice trailed off. “We _must_ discuss Halamshiral.”

Meryell’s ears twitched several times at that and Cullen stared at them, fascinated as always by their movements, before he asked, “We've secured a way in?”

The ambassador smiled as she replied, “We are to be the guests of Grand Duke Gaspard.” She lowered her board to rest it on the table, hands flat against its surface, as she added, “He has offered his support to us if we back his claim to the throne.”

Cullen arched an eyebrow at that before saying, “Despite this civil war he's been waging seeming like a damned fool move, that could be to our advantage. He's an accomplished tactician and the chevalier are behind him.”

Meryell just snorted on the other side of the table, growling, “Assassination attempt first, possibly disorganizing the whole of Orlais later.” She flashed a smile at him as she added, “I know we're Ferelden, love, but that's no reason to be mean to the poor Orlesians.”

He quirked his lips into a smile at that, arching an eyebrow at her as if to ask _Really?_ She then added, “Not to mention, you're talking about toppling an Empress. While that might be fucking fun - I've certainly never pulled off a job _that_ big - there's more important shit at stake.”

“Fair point.”

“No matter what we do,” Leliana began suddenly, “we shall inevitably get drawn into the Game as well as the peace talks. Our influence has grown a great deal thanks to Josie’s work. While Ferelden has taken notice of us the most, the other countries have certainly heard of us and wonder what it is we seek.”

“Good notice?” asked Meryell. “‘Cause Queen Anora didn't seem all too happy to see me when we met her in Redcliffe months back.”

“Ah, but you have aided her people and uncovered an injustice that was done during the Blight since then,” pointed out Josephine. She looked down for a moment before adding, “She has allowed us as well to judge the Mayor of Crestwood as we see fit since we discovered his crimes as well. That is for another time, of course.”

“Right,” Meryell said, her voice slightly disgusted. As Cullen looked over at her, he noticed that her nose was wrinkled in distaste as she stared at the small castle marker placed over where Halamshiral was located on the war table map. “We need to focus on this fucking party. Did I mention that I _hate_ fucking parties?”

Cassandra outright snorted at her comment and Cullen smiled before asking, “You _hate_ parties?” with mild disbelief. She immediately rolled her eyes in response and turned her head to glare at both of them in return.

“You two know what I’m fucking talking about. I can murder for a party that’s just you lot and people I like hanging around; talking shit, drinking, and telling tall tales into the wee hours of the morning. This kind of shit that we’re going to face? I don’t _like_ dealing with this sort of nugshit.”

Next to him, Josephine tilted her head to the side and asked, “You have dealt with such parties before? For a...” She paused, as if pondering how to more delicately phrase the question and finished with a curious, “job?”

The look on Meryell’s face in immediate response was so utterly amused by the ambassador’s question that he nearly laughed out loud himself.

Meryell chuckled as she replied, “Josephine, you have known what I am for over a year now and you still haven’t quite come to terms with it?”

“It is merely my fear of that fact being known and what it could do to the Inquisition,” replied the ambassador. “While there are many who are aware and accept that you were a member of a mercenary company…”

“ _Are_ ,” interrupted Meryell sternly, to correct her. “ _Are_ a member of a mercenary company.”

Cullen immediately turned his head to look at Josephine at that and found her smiling fondly instead of the expression of reprimand that he had anticipated seeing. “Yes, of course,” she replied. “It is well known to those of us within the Inquisition that you are still a member of the company. But there are many who will assume that you have broken ties with them, not understanding the relationship that you have.”

“Well those sods can go fuck themselves,” snapped Meryell in reply.

Now Josephine did give her a look of reprimand and he was a little surprised as he watched the elven woman on the other side of the table wilt slightly in the face of it. Not because Josephine’s expression lacked power - he’d been on the end of her scolding a time or two himself and knew how threatening she could be in her own way - but because he’d never seen Meryell do such a thing. Not unless it was Folke scolding her.

Sighing, Meryell said, “I know enough to not tell them that to their _faces_ , Josie. Not while I'm actually working at Halamshiral, anyway.”

“We shall see how well exactly you do know that,” noted the ambassador in the same sort of no-nonsense tone that he could recall a Chantry Sister or two speaking in during his training years. And, to think of it, his mother. “We will use these last months to finish going over everything that we need to know to face the Winter Palace. I have, of course, already been doing so but it has been rather hard to get some of the things I need done.”

Josephine paused before adding lightly with a smile, “Such as your fitting.”

“My _what_?”

Cullen managed to lift a hand in time to cover the smile threatening to split his face in half as Meryell’s outrage was too amusing. Having never left Skyhold except to go down into the camps, he’d already been put through much of what she was now experiencing. He had also been asked his opinion of some of the sketches that Josephine’s hired tailor had put together after the man had gathered information about Meryell. Knowing her and not knowing anything about fashion at all, he’d gone for the most practical...not to mention the most simple given that he knew her to be a woman of simpler means. He only hoped that Josephine was sticking to something similar.

“You cannot show up at the Winter Palace in leathers and patched tunics,” Leliana pointed out lightly with a smile. When Meryell turned to glare at her, the spymaster’s smile merely widened. “I believe you will be pleased with Josephine’s choices. She has a good eye and chose her tailor well in order to match our dress to both ourselves and each other.”

“So long as I am not in a dress,” commented Cassandra and Meryell nodded vigorously in agreement. Then the pair of them noticed him covering his mouth and the younger woman pointed a finger at him while the older just glared.

“You know something,” grumbled Meryell.

Nodding, Cassandra said firmly, “He does. He would not be hiding his smile so if he did not.”

With a shake of his head, Cullen somehow managed to control himself and returned his hand to rest on his sword. “I know _nothing_ ,” he insisted. Neither of them looked particularly convinced of this and he could only smile as Meryell turned to hiss _I’ll fucking find out, don’t you worry_ to Cassandra.

He was either decidedly _screwed_ or her attempts were going to be very...interesting. Alternatively, it was going to be a mix of both.

Even with the lingering headache and the near constant ache in his bones lately, Cullen was abruptly greatly looking forward to the rest of his day. Particularly the possibilities of his night if he ended up with the alternate option.

Josephine coughed politely, drawing all of their attention to her before she asked, “May we continue?” When silence answered the question, she nodded to herself and began, “Given that we will be in Halamshiral for several nights and taking advantage of Duke Gaspard’s generosity, it is likely that we shall need to decide who is going with us.”

“Everyone,” replied Meryell without giving it a moment’s thought. When he arched an eyebrow at her and saw Josephine just staring out of the corner of his eye, she sighed. “Assassination attempts are no fucking joke, so don’t have one fucking doubt that I’m not taking this seriously. Taking everyone gets us more eyes on things, which is always good.”

“And by everyone we are referring to the inner circle, yes?” asked Leliana.

“Throw in a couple of the Fangs too.”

Cullen just smiled and asked, “Folke?”

Meryell grinned in reply as Josephine sighed before she said, “ _Baba_ loves a good party where he can rub elbows. Oh, don’t look like that, Josie, he knows how to not be himself just as much as I do.”

The ambassador looked decidedly dubious at the prospect then sighed wearily before asking, “And besides your father?”

“Well, Arnald. He knows how to play the Game, not to mention that he still knows more than a few people that'll probably be there.” He watched her as she tapped her fingers against her lips, probably not even noticing herself that the tip of one ear flicked just slightly as she stood there thinking. “There's bound to be servants there, particularly Elven since it's Halamshiral. We could probably sneak in Sera and a few of the Fangs. Hart doesn't have a vallaslin so she's a definite. Evune’s are noticeable but Pod’s might pass close observation.”

“Felie’s Orlesian and from a small noble house,” she went on, “but we're not sure how much of the story of her supposed fraternization got out before Ghislain fell.”

“Supposed fraternization?” questioned Leliana.

Meryell just shrugged. “She was accused of having a relationship with one of the Senior Enchanters in her Circle. Her friend, for what little mages and templars are allowed to be friends. Just so happened that the revolt hit them right fucking when she was about to get officially booted from the Order and the mage was on schedule to get the brand.”

He flinched at the mention of the brand involved in the Rite of Tranquility - how many had he stood over? How many had been there because they'd merely told a templar _no_ or had been falsely accused? How many mages had the Chantry put so much fear of themselves into that they begged to have their connection to the Fade cut?

And to think that once upon a time he'd thought the Rite to be a _mercy_.

“What happened?” asked Josephine with a gasp, drawing him back to the present. Cullen turned his attention to Meryell just as she nonchalantly shrugged before answering the question.

“Felie got them out and they ran like the damned Void was at their heels. She deliberately split from them when her lyrium supply ran out, not wanting to inadvertently hurt one of them, and that's how we found her. Laying in a ditch in the backwoods of Orlais, babbling off her head from some asshole braining her with a tree limb on top of the withdrawals. Stole everything she had, including her kit.”

“And the mage?” asked Cassandra with a slightly arched eyebrow.

The elf smiled brightly as she replied, “He actually ended up amongst the Redcliffe lot. Last I heard, they’d rekindled their friendship and he was talking about joining the ranks. He's apparently a fucking damned good force mage and is actually one of those sneaky little shits in the Circles that managed to learn shapeshifting. We don't actually have one of those right now and I think Arnald’s having pups at the idea of being able to work him into the field.”

Cullen merely arched his eyebrows at the news that there were apparently mages in the Circles that went against common convention to learn one of the forbidden sets of spells. Though, if he were entirely honest, it really wasn’t that surprising. Learning shapeshifting was less about power and control like blood magic was and more about freedom and the ability to change. Even being able to only turn into a cat could be a little bit of freedom for a mage.

Not that that particular school of magic made him comfortable - it was actually one of the ones he was more wary of, simply because of how badly it could go. So far as he’d been taught about it, a mage learning the art had a very small chance of not being able to control of some of their shifts. That was one of the main reasons that it wasn’t taught within the Circle with the next being that it gave too much of a chance of escape being possible through a mage slipping past a templar patrol in an easy to miss form with no one being the wiser.

 _But you aren’t a templar anymore_ , he reminded himself. It had been hard enough to remind himself before, to remember to not unduly scold or press a mage when he saw something that wouldn’t have been allowed within a Circle. Within lyrium singing softly in his veins again at times, it was harder to recall sometimes.

That disconnect with time and place was one of the things he hated, that he could so easily slip backwards. He didn’t want to be that man anymore.

“I can look quietly into her family’s situation and see if her presence would aid us or merely be a hindrance,” Cullen heard Josephine say then, drawing his attention squarely back to the situation at hand. He then noticed Meryell watching him with a slight wrinkle between her brows, worry clear in her eyes. Apparently he’d been woolgathering rather hard.

Smiling at her, he mouthed _I’m fine_ before asking, “Have we found anything on who might be Corypheus’ agent at the Winter Palace?”

Leliana smiled at him in clear amusement before she replied, “There are many, Commander, who would like to see the Empress dethroned or dead. She has made a great deal of enemies, including Duke Gaspard.”

Frowning at her, he said, “I’ll take that answer is a _no_ then.”

“I have many possibilities. In three months, I will narrow them down to a more...manageable number.” The spymaster’s smile then thinned and turned a hair towards sinister. “I will find them.”

Meryell narrowed her eyes at the older woman from her side of the table but said nothing in reply, merely stared. Leliana met her gaze evenly and he watched something unspoken pass between them before the spymaster inclined her head slightly. Meryell nodded in response then turned her attention back to Josephine to ask, “Anything else we need to go over right now?”

“I would like to spend a few hours going over court protocol with you today and perhaps dancing tomorrow and the next since you plan to leave in a few days,” replied the ambassador as she lifted her board back up into her arms. Her eyes then flicked briefly between Meryell and him, lingering more towards him than her, as she added, “Unless something more pressing occurs.”

Cullen wanted to bristle a little at the slight implication that he was going to abruptly descend back into the state he’d just clawed his way out of but stilled himself. Josephine _was_ giving preference to him over a thing that absolutely needed to be done for their larger mission. Part of him didn’t like it at all because he was but one man and the fate of the whole of Thedas was more important than one lyrium addict. Yet another was just a little bit pleased by the idea that he _was_ that important, speaking as someone who hadn’t thought he was particularly important for some years.

He caught Meryell’s eye then and shook his head subtly to indicate that no, he didn’t need her. His head might still hurt and his hands still shook but he was a little more sure now than he had been. Her support and faith was a thing that buoyed him upwards and kept his head just that little bit more afloat above the rough waters his life had descended into. Even more so than that of all the others who had told him that he could make it - which had included a rather lot of Fangs lately, who had found one excuse or another to come to his office or pass through it. Someone had also been hiding little notes all around his tower, each with something encouraging on it or repetition of words that others had said. He wondered at their source a great deal and had asked his runners and soldiers to keep an eye out for who might be leaving them but so far no one had been caught.

Which was a pity. He rather wanted to thank his mysterious note leaver before asking them to kindly not put down so obvious ones that alluded to parts of his past he’d rather leave behind. They were still kind but he burned those instead of keeping them like the others.

He remembered the things they spoke of well enough to not need them as a reminder. And he wasn’t quite certain he was ready to forgive himself of some of them just yet.

She smiled in reply, a smile that was just south of the one she’d flashed him what seemed ages ago - the bright and brilliant one that he had sworn to drawn out more instances of. Then she turned to Josephine and said, “I believe I’m free. Although _someone_ had better fucking send a runner after me if he needs me.”

Normally he would have been annoyed by her so directly calling him out - as the only male in the room, the reference was obviously pointed at him - but this instance was different. She’d been terribly worried about him according to Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian, who had all managed to come and see him after they’d gotten back when he was either alone or Meryell was otherwise distracted. That hadn’t lessened despite her seeing that he was recovering, particularly not after he’d confessed that he didn’t know if he could make it through withdrawal again.

He couldn’t be annoyed with her for caring about him.

So Cullen smiled at her, utterly ignoring whatever looks they were getting from the other women in the room, and replied as if they weren’t there, “I will not leave you in the dark, _vhen’an_.” Josephine’s immediate sniffle - Maker, that woman! - had him blushing furiously again but that bright smile that took over Meryell’s face made up for any sort of embarrassment he was feeling. He would do almost anything for that one smile.

“Enough,” groaned Cassandra, though her annoyance was belied by the fact that she was smiling fondly at the both of them. “We are done, yes?”

“Yes,” replied Josephine firmly. She then said, “I will see you in my office, Inquisitor,” as she began to move around the war table towards the door.

“ _Meryell_.”

The ambassador’s laugh was bright as she exited the room and called back over her shoulder, “I am merely getting you prepared for me calling you that inside my office. Inquisitor.”

Meryell growled as she disappeared, a smiling Leliana at her heels as well as an amused Cassandra, before hissing under her breath, “I knew I should have made that an _outside_ the war room order as well.”

Chuckling, Cullen noted, “You know Josephine would have ignored it. Particularly on the chance that someone might overhear her calling you something so familiar.”

“It doesn’t bother you. Or Cass.”

“Despite the fact that we have stood a great deal on protocol in our lives,” he replied, “neither of us are in a particular position to require us to have issue with your request on a daily basis.”

Meryell turned around from where she’d been facing the door to frown at him across table. “You’re the Commander of what’s supposed to be _my_ army.”

He merely smirked before saying, “It’s also common knowledge that we share a bed whenever you’re in Skyhold.” As her eyebrows went up, Cullen laughed before adding, “It surprised me as well when I heard it. Apparently we’re a _love story for the ages_.”

“That’s Varric. I _know_ that’s fucking Varric.”

Laughing, he noted, “I cannot say for certain but, yes, that was my assumption as well.” Cullen then glanced towards the war room door, which hadn’t been entirely closed but was shut enough to give some level of privacy, before he moved around the table towards her. He reached out as soon as he was close enough to, palming his hand over her hip as he leaned his own against the edge of the table. “Can I guess that I won’t see you until sometime tonight then? If you’re to be tangled up with Josephine all day?”

She smiled in reply and moved in closer, pressing herself up against his chest as she drawled a reply. “Well, I’m hoping that I can convince her to cut this shit down to less time.”

Arching his eyebrows, he asked, “You think you can? I think that would be a feat indeed, dear thief.” Then he tilted his head to the side before adding, “Is this a part of what you were saying earlier about not liking this sort of party?”

Meryell immediately beamed at him in reply, her smile a hair towards sly, and he laughed.

“It _is_.”

“Appearance is everything, _vhen’an_ ,” she answered brightly. Then she arched up onto her toes, sliding her arms up to wrap them around his neck. He let his arms fall around her, lacing his fingers together at the small of her back, as she tacked on, “And I’ve got lots of practice at hiding my fucking appearance behind a wall of this or that.”

Cullen merely hummed in acknowledgement, enjoying the feel of her body pressed against his without a layer of metal and padding between them. “I’ve never known you to hide a part of yourself. Your past, yes, but you’ve always been honest about exactly who and what sort of person you are.”

Meryell merely smiled in a sad sort of way, brushing her fingers over the short curled hairs at the back of his neck that absolutely refused to go along with what he wanted the rest of his hair to do. “You also haven’t seen me on a job,” she commented softly. “This’ll... _shit_ , this’ll be sort of like that.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked down at that, turning her face away from him, and Cullen wasn’t going to have that. Turning to his left, he unlaced his fingers and lifted her up onto the edge of the war table. Planting one hand on the table, he lifted the other to lightly touch her cheek but didn’t push her to turn back towards him. Instead he waited, just watching her face as she sat there chewing on her bottom lip until she was ready to give him an answer.

“I mean that I can’t just go out on that floor and tell them to fuck off and where exactly they can fuck off to, Cullen. I’ve got to curb my tongue and my temper just that little bit because we _can’t_ let Corypheus have what he wants. We can’t let him have the possible chaos that Celene’s death might cause. I _won’t_.” Meryell let out a heavy breath then and closed her eyes. “I refuse to let that bastard destroy the world.”

“So,” he began slowly, rubbing his fingertips gently against the curve of her cheek, “you’re not going to be your normal foul-mouthed self for a few nights.” When she just shrugged and tilted her head more into his hand, Cullen softly asked, “Is there something more than that?”

Meryell sighed at that and abruptly straightened up, opening her eyes to look up at him for a moment before she looked away towards the floor. She gnawed on her bottom lip for another moment - a habit he found rather adorable - before she mumbled something that he couldn’t hear.

“Meryell…”

“It’s a lie,” she said flatly, cutting him off. “I don’t...I don’t like lying to the people I love. And it’s a lie to feed to fuckers that I don’t give two shits about what they think of me.”

Shaking his head, Cullen carefully took her face in his hands and gently tilted it up so he could actually look at her. Before he spoke, he leaned across the space between them and pressed a brief, featherlight kiss against her lips before he whispered, “If you think that I’m going to believe you’re anything other than _you_ , you’re out of your damned mind. As for the rest...you lied when you were working a job, right?”

Slowly she nodded in reply and he smiled.

“This is just another job, dear thief.”

“It’s not…”

“Ahh!” he said, interrupting her. As she pursed her lips and flashed a little glare at him, he went on, “We’re merely taking a piece from Corypheus’ board.”

That made her snort and Meryell grumbled, “You _would_ manage to somehow turn this into a chess analogy.”

“It’s not inaccurate.”

“No,” she agreed. “It’s not.” She sat there for a long moment before she sighed and blinked up at him, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “So,” she said, “just a job?”

“Just a job, love,” he assured. He then brushed his thumb lightly across her cheekbones before he let his hands slide away from her face, down over her shoulders and the light but long-sleeved shirt she wore in the slightly chilly weather that Skyhold seemed to almost constantly have, even in high summer. Cullen slipped his hands then down to her thighs, curling his fingers around to grip them before he tugged her forward across the slight space that had somehow opened up between them. As she gasped and reached out to grab his own shirt, her fingers curling into the fabric, he said, “And it’s not like you have to pretend you don’t know any of us. _We_ will know it’s a show.”

“Maker’s balls, I’m being fucking stupid, aren’t I?” she asked then, the question sounding more rhetorical than anything, closing her eyes as she let out a heavy breath. Meryell then leaned forward, pressing her head into his chest, and groaned, “Of course you’d _know_. Fuck.”

Bending his head, Cullen kissed the top of hers and murmured into her hair, “I think we’re both allowed to be a little stupid lately. This...I...I know it’s been stressful on both of us.”

She let out a slightly hollow sounding laugh in response before nodding her head. The sensation of the pressure against his chest changing as she did so was a weird one but not nearly enough for him to move away. “You and Cassandra are going to have a war on understatements this year, I see,” she commented a moment later.

“We’ll have ourselves a bout over who gets to win while you’re away.” When her head snapped up, he quickly added, “So long as Gil clears me, yes. I’m not…” He paused to take a breath before finishing, “I’m not fucking this up, _vhen’an_.”

Meryell just nodded slowly then leaned forward again, this time laying her cheek against his chest and wrapping her arms around him. He shifted his grip on her in turn, curling his hands once more around the small of her back, as she said, “Fucking better. Gil’d murder you otherwise.”

While Cullen smiled at the idea of the healer in a right rage (Gil still didn’t seem the sort to lose her temper, despite having to raise her voice to him a time or two in the past), he quickly lost it as he bent his head back over hers. “The thought of disappointing _you_ is far better incentive than Gil being that angry,” he murmured.

She abruptly sniffed in reply and shifted one arm just enough to lightly thump him in the side with a closed fist. “Stop it,” she insisted. “You’re gonna make me fucking _cry_.”

“Well. Obviously I should since I’ve been working to _not_ make you cry.”

“No tears, so we won’t count it that time.” Meryell then pushed herself away from him and he wanted to crush her back against him at the loss. “I should probably get to this fucking shit with Josie. Before she comes in here looking for me.”

Nodding slightly, Cullen stepped back away from her so she could simply slide down from the table. As soon as her feet were on the ground, he pulled her close once again and carefully tilted her chin up with his thumb as he leaned down across the gap between their heights. “Just a job, dear thief,” he reminded softly. “No matter how you have to act at Halamshiral, you will still be Inquisitor, still be a Fang, and _I_ will still be _yours_.”

Now she _was_ blinking actual tears out of her eyes and he finished crossing the space between them to claim her mouth. Meryell arched up into him at the contact as her hands gripped his hips and he clutched hers in return as he held her there. When he finally pulled away, Cullen lifted one hand to wipe away the tear tracks across her cheeks with his thumb as he murmured, “Sorry.”

“Happy tears, Cullen,” insisted Meryell brightly, raising her own hand to wipe at her face. Then she rose up to kiss him very briefly, just a tiny peck of a kiss in the breath of a moment, and whispered, “Thank you, _vhen’an_.”

Shaking his head, Cullen said, “After what you and the Fangs have done for me...Maker, I owe _you_ and them so much. But, yes, you need to go.” Taking a moment to just look down at her - this tiny, whirlwind of a woman - he smiled broadly before kissing her forehead with a murmured, “Go prove you know your shit, love.”

That made her laugh, bright and clear, and the sound of it in turn made him able to smile easily as they left the war room together but he kept walking on forward back out into the main hall without her. Cullen took a long breath as he stood outside the main door into that particular section of the keep after closing it before nodding to himself and heading back towards his office.

He had an appointment with Gil and Folke to keep.

* * *

“How much can you still feel magic being cast?” asked Folke as he sat down backwards on one of Cullen's office chairs, folding his arms across its back.

Sighing, Cullen leaned back in his desk chair, resting his arms along the sides as he answered, “More than I could before all this but far less than when I was still taking lyrium regularly.”

“What was your dosage at the end?” asked Gil, who had his other chair. She also had a writing board propped across her knees and was ready with ink and quill to take notes. “I need to know to fully flesh out our plan other than the daily doses we’re currently doing.”

“That shouldn't be relevant, should it?” he asked, his brow furrowing. He'd been under the impression that all they would have to worry about was meeting the amount they had given him to quell the attack. That things weren't going that way made him feel...uneasy.

And he’d already felt uneasy enough about having to have this discussion. Having...support was something almost utterly foreign for him. Particularly support that went beyond emotional.

Sighing, the female mage folded her hands on top of the papers stacked on her board and replied, “Alas, it is. Despite the fact that you were no longer able to use it, there is no doubt still a great deal of lyrium in your body. As I stated when we first spoke upon you waking up, it lingers in the body long after a templar ceases to take it.”

“Like an infection gone foul,” grumbled Folke. When Gil flashed him an annoyed look, the hedge mage just grunted. “Don't fucking give me that stink eye, Gil. You know it's true.”

She rolled her eyes towards the ceiling before taking a deep breath and turning her attention back to Cullen. “You’ve served how long?”

Shifting slightly, he replied, “Eleven years. I…” He paused and lifted a hand to rub at his forehead, feeling a stronger headache than the one he already had pecking at his temples since waking coming on. “One year at the Tower before...before. S-seven months at G-Greenfell.”

Cullen paused, suddenly breathing hard as he stuttered over the words and closed his eyes tight as he thought of the Chantry there. Of the templars who'd lost themselves. He'd been such a young fool at the time, too blinded by fear and rage to really _see_ that that was his future then. And he was _terrified_ of the idea of ending up like that.

It suddenly felt like his head was spinning, like his mind was trying to whirl too fast, and he felt light-headed. He was aware distantly of how tight his chest abruptly was, how it heaved like a cresting wave. There were voices in his ears as well, saying things quick and frantic...though that could very well be his own perception. Everything was fast _and_ slow at the same time and he squeezed his eyes shut even more and clutched at the arms of his chair in desperation while everything spun out of control. He lost track of everything around him in the wake of it as he tried to focus on something solid, on _anything_ firm and unmoving, but he couldn’t find the thread of it.

“Maker’s shriveled cock,” growled Folke abruptly in his ear, making him start. “ _Breathe_ for fuck’s sake, _isha’len._ ” He instantly sucked in a breath, feeling like he was coming up for air from deep waters. A moment later Cullen realized that he was shaking almost violently and Folke was behind him with one arm wrapped around his shoulders. The hedge mage’s other hand had his right hand pinned down to the side of the chair, a fact he realized before making note a moment later that his own left hand was clenched in a vise-like grip around Folke’s forearm. And he knew from the clenched muscles in his own forearm that he was holding on tight enough to bruise.

Shame and fear flared through him but Cullen couldn’t get his body to relax despite telling it to. He worked to breathe through the panic, his brain whirling for something - _anything_ \- to focus on still. To cling to. Abruptly his chest seized up again as all of that panic just swelled inside of him and all he wanted to do was _run._

“ _Breathe_ ,” snapped Folke, his voice commanding. “Breathe with me, son. In. And out. Come on.”

It took a moment but he somehow managed to focus on the older man’s voice. He felt him nod as Folke continued, “That’s it. That’s it, Cullen. Breathe in. Breathe out.” And Cullen did. They did it together - he was able to hear the mage’s inhales and exhales easily by him being so close to his ear - and slowly that terrible knot inside his chest started to uncurl.

When he was finally able to loosen his grip, Cullen breathed, “Maker, Folke, _I’m sorry_. I…”

“ _Telahna_ ,” rumbled Folke, his voice low and rough. “This isn’t my first panic, _isha’len_. I’m fine. Bruises heal, don’t worry your head.” The hedge mage then straightened, releasing the pressure on Cullen’s arm and lifting that same hand to ruffle his hair with obvious affection. “Just take a moment. Gil’ll be back in a few.”

With that he opened his eyes and realized that she was gone, her board the only thing left to occupy her chair, and asked softly, “What?” It hadn’t been a moment ago that he’d panicked, had it? Surely it hadn’t been long enough for her to make it out of the room. Right?

“She went to lay into that mean old bat of a head cook one of you lot hired for the kitchens and confiscate some means to make tea. Made use of one of your runners to go drag some of my supply out of my tent in camp. Hope you don’t mind.”

“N-no.”

Cullen closed his eyes as his voice stammered again beyond his control and just tried to _breathe_ . Maker and his Bride, he hadn’t had a panic in _years_. Not since his first year and a half in Kirkwall (and Greenfell before that) before Commander Meredith had ordered his dosage increased to counteract his nightmares because of noise complaints.

He’d been so fucking _high_ he had barely remembered he had reasons to panic.

“ _Fuck_ ,” hissed Cullen, squeezing his eyes together again, so tightly that the delicate muscles around them hurt. He’d thought he was already getting _better_ but if this was flaring back up…

“Cullen,” Folke said firmly. The hedge mage’s voice somehow had him opening his eyes to look at the man, who was now to his right leaning against the desk and frowning down at him. He flicked his gray eyes over him before saying gently, “This is not Greenfell. You will _not_ end up in Greenfell or anywhere of its like.”

“I…”

After his voice broke off, Cullen shook his head and leaned forward to brace his arms against the surface of the desk. He hung his head as he took a moment to try and regather whatever was left of his nerves. Taking a deep breath, he slowly nodded and said, “I know. I just...I’m not good at this. _Talking_.”

A hand touched his shoulder then, cautious for a moment before it came to fully rest and gripped firmly. The pressure was oddly soothing and somewhat reminiscent of when he’d be dragged out of a nightmare by Samson, back before the lyrium high and dismissals, back when they’d been _friends_ and he hadn’t looked at the begging shadow of the man with a distant sort of sadness and fear. He swiftly banished all thought of the man because he was now the _enemy_ and, Maker, that hurt more than he’d let anyone know. More than he’d let _himself_ know, really.

“It takes time,” assured Folke, his voice low and gentle. He paused before asking, “Do you think you could talk about it? Greenfell?”

Cullen shook his head because he did _not_ want to think about who he’d been then. He did, however, whisper, “I don’t want to lose everything, Folke.”

“We’re going to do everything we can to stop that, _isha’len_. Alright then...Kirkwall. Tell me about Kirkwall.” Folke eased himself into a sitting position on the desk, crossing his arms as he went on, “You were there from 9:31 on, right? Up until our dear Cassandra recruited you?”

Kirkwall was barely a safer topic but he took a deep breath and nodded. “Until 9:40,” he answered. “Almost a decade.”

“Long time. Was the Blooming Rose still doing good business while you were there? I haven’t visited that damned city in what feels like a fucking Age but...well...the Rose _always_ took care of its patrons.”

Immediately Cullen found himself hot in the cheeks, certain he was blushing brightly, and jerked his head up to glare at the man. Folke grinned down at him in response and he realized after a moment that he’d been played in order to look up.

“Bastard,” he hissed under his breath.

“My parents _were_ married, thank you,” replied the hedge mage snidely as he smirked. “Albeit it was the Chasind version of marriage but that didn’t matter to them. Still counts.” He then cocked his head to the side and asked, “So...the Rose?”

“Never visited. Not for _that_ ,” replied Cullen quickly. “Last I saw of it the roof was still badly damaged by the destruction of the Chantry. They didn’t have too many patrons immediately after not surprisingly and fell short of all the coin they needed to fix it. Shortage of workers to do the repairs as well, since they were working on things deemed more important. Madame Lusine set up shop elsewhere in Hightown while it was undergoing repairs.”

Folke nodded with a smile before asking, “That chap Ewald still Captain of the Guard? We used to bribe him to look the other way when were working there.”

Frowning, Cullen was certain that was true but Meryell had told him several stories of jobs that she’d been on for the company with Folke included. One of which had been an instance when they’d been hired by a Kirkwall noble to be muscle for one of his parties since his political rival had bribed all of his own men to betray him. And that had been in 9:34, a good while after Ewald had been replaced twice over.

“ _Jeven_ was Captain of the Guard when I got to Kirkwall in 9:31,” he said with narrowed eyes. “What are you playing at, Folke?”

“Only making sure your head’s in the right decade or so, darling.” The hedge mage might be smiling at him but his gray eyes were starkly serious. “Like I said, not my first panic. A lot of the one’s I’ve been witness to from templars didn’t leave them in the right place. Not up top.”

 _Oh_.

“Well,” Cullen drawled a little uneasily, “I, ah, hope I passed.”

Folke nodded before he shrugged one shoulder. “Not to mention talking about random shit to distract you.”

Nodding slightly, Cullen noted that he felt less tense, his shoulders not feeling like they were knotted up to his ears. It was still there, of course, but the embarrassment from talking about the Blooming Rose and the distraction of the Guard Captain question had definitely lessened it some.

“We’ll wait for Gil and then we’ll make a second go at this, all right?” he then heard the man say, drawing his attention back to the mage. “Unless you want to talk to just one of us alone. Or, fuck, someone that you don’t know altogether if that would make you more comfortable.”

Shuddering a little at the thought of trying to tell these things to an _utter stranger_ , Cullen vigorously shook his head as he let it hang again. “No,” he replied firmly. “I don’t...I don’t think I could with someone I didn’t know. You...you and Gil _know_. Maker, you know so much more than I do really. It’s just...hard.”

“I would tell you it gets easier, _isha’len_ ,” intoned Folke softly, “but it’s different for everyone.” Cullen then felt the man’s hand come to rest on top of his head again, fingers gently ruffling his hair before they stilled. “You absolutely don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about but there are things we need to know. We might have to ask painful questions.”

The thought of having to possibly reveal some of the things he’d done or the things he’d let happen sent a sharp lance of panic up Cullen’s spine. Folke’s hand was oddly...comforting...thought and counteracted that feeling, despite the fact that it seemed like it _should_ be awkward. It was…

Maker, it was the sort of thing _his father_ had done when he and the rest were little.

Opening his mouth, Cullen began, “Folke, _isha’len_ …”

“Son,” the hedge mage said abruptly, his voice low and a little...wary? He lifted his head just enough that he could see the man and found his expression a little strained and tight. “It means son.”

The realization hit like a thunderclap that the man had been calling him _son_ for nearly the better part of a year. Before he and Meryell had confirmed what was between them, when it had only been wild desperation and need after he’d thought he’d lost her. Yet Folke had _known_. Or at least guessed correctly as to where things were going.

“Folke,” he began again, sitting up and leaning back in his chair. The man let his hand fall away as he made the move and just sat there on the desk, crossing his arms over his chest again. Cullen frowned as he considered what to say for what felt like a long moment before he simply said, “Thank you.”

“I don’t need thanks, _isha’len._ Not for this.” Smiling, Folke went on, “You make my girl happy. Fuck, happier than I’ve seen her in _years_ . That’s enough. It’s _more_ than enough.”

Cullen started to open his mouth to argue because it didn’t feel like it was _half_ enough when there was an abrupt noise at the door and Gil’s voice snapping, “Folke, get off your ass and come open this door for me and the lad who hauled your tea all the way up from the end of the damned world!”

The mage laughed, tipping his head back in that way that reminded Cullen of Meryell, before he dropped down off of the desk. Folke clapped him on the shoulder and smiled before he headed towards the door, calling out, “Fine, fine, keep your fucking skirt on, Gil.”

“I’ll pitch my skirt wherever I like,” replied Gil, looking decidedly grumpy as she carefully held a tray that bore three mugs, a heavy looking pot that had its sides nearly looking frosted over from the temperature difference between it and the outside, and several other small pots and other things that were apparently requirements for having tea. She weaved around Folke with the runner in her wake - one of his younger lads, who barely looked like he could carry the heavy looking chest he cradled in his arms - and moved towards the desk with an intent look in her eyes.

Cullen guessed her intention before she was even halfway across the room and she smiled brightly at him as he pushed himself up to clear off a section of his desk. “Thank you, Cullen,” she said brightly. Gil then turned and plucked the chest out of the runner’s arms with what looked like very little effort - apparently it wasn’t as heavy as it looked and was just ungainly for such a small youth - and sat it down on one corner of the desk on top of a pile of papers. She then reached out to ruffle his short dark hair and pulled a gold coin out from a pouch on her belt to press into his hand. “Thank you as well, lad.”

The boy looked half _terrified_ at being handed that much at one time and turned to look at Cullen, his face pale. Smiling at him, Cullen murmured, “You’re fine, Gerrick. Go home and give that coin to your mother. She’ll appreciate it for your little sister.”

At that statement all of the panic bled out of the boy and Gerrick nodded firmly as he tucked the coin into his tunic. He then bowed and quickly stammered out, “Th-thank you, L-Lady Gil.” Turning, he saluted to Cullen - sharp and shockingly on point for a lad of his age, a feat he had apparently accomplished through hours of practice according to his mother - and practically chirped a _Thank you, ser_ , as he bolted past Folke out the door.

As the mage closed it behind him, he arched an eyebrow and said, “Sister?”

Nodding, Cullen sat back down because Gil was giving him a pointed look as she opened the chest and began sifting around inside of it. Then he answered, “Born only a few months ago. His mother’s one of the kitchen staff and has been since the early days. Her husband served under me before we reached Skyhold.”

He knew instantly by the looks on their faces that both of them realized that Gerrick’s father had been one of the many who hadn’t made it out of Haven. Gesturing towards the closed door, Cullen went on, “The lad wanted to fight but...he’s barely eleven and small even for that age. I sat him down and had a talk about choosing the right course of action. Made a comment that he could run and learn things underneath me that he wouldn’t learn as just another sword on the field and he’s been running for me since. One of the fastest I have, in fact.”

As soon as he finished, he looked down at where his hands were clasped together in his lap in a failed attempt to keep them somewhat still and said, “But we aren’t here to talk about my runners.”

“No,” replied Gil softly. He then heard the sound of water being poured into the cups she’d brought with her and glanced up to meet her eyes. “But first,” she continued with a smile, “tea. I do hope I picked the right one for you, Folke.”

The hedge mage made a dismissive sound, waving a hand before he retook the chair he’d abandoned earlier - though this time he turned it around to sit in it properly. “I’ve drunk them all while I was making them. Only way to know a thing’s good is to try it yourself, as my father once said.”

Gil merely made a noise of agreement in response before she handed the mage a mug and then she turned to extend another toward Cullen. “I put a little honey in yours,” she intoned softly. When he blinked at her, wondering how exactly she knew that he preferred his slightly sweetened, she added, “This particular version of Folke’s headache tea can be...bitter.”

Ah. That explained that.

“Mmm, it’s the damned embrium,” commented Folke. “It smells lovely and works wonders for healing but it lends just bitterness flavor wise. I’ve tried to mask it before but that tends to shift how everything works and it sometimes makes the embrium less potent and...well...”

Cullen blinked at the two of them for a long moment before he took the mug Gil held out to him and blew across the surface of the hot liquid. Cautiously he lifted it to his lips and took a sip, grimacing as he immediately tasted the bitterness. “Maker,” he muttered with a grunt. “That’s…”

“You _can_ say it's terrible. Won't hurt my feelings.”

Letting out a breath, he muttered, “Only if it doesn’t do anything,” before he took another sip. Grimacing again, Cullen asked, “More honey wouldn’t cause issues, would it?”

Folke frowned before he replied, “No, no, sweetening only interferes with a particular blend of blightcap and deathroot with a touch of felandaris that some of us know how to make. Though that’s not really for _casual_ drinking.”

“What does it do?” asked Cullen curiously as he shifted forward in his seat before he frowned. “Where is the honey?”

“Here,” replied Gil as she picked up the little pot and put it into his hand. She then picked up her own mug and reseated herself, shifting her writing board to her lap as she said, “It causes a miscarriage in the early days. Sugar or honey, however, tends to react badly with the blightcap and cause terrible sickness and nausea. Far more so than the drink does itself on its own.”

Folke flashed Cullen a very pointed look and said, “Hopefully _not_ a concoction I ever need to make for you or anyone close to you, Commander.”

He was so flummoxed at the idea of Meryell with child - _his child_ \- that he just gaped at the man for a moment. Then he flushed bright red, heat flaring through his cheeks, and lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. _Maker_.

“N-no,” he managed to stammer out in reply. “I-I should h-hope not.”

Why did the man always make him feel like an awkward youth again when he made some sort of comment about him and Meryell?

Cullen then coughed pointedly and flashed a desperate look at Gil, who was smiling at him over the rim of her cup. “Can we, ah, get back to our meeting?”

“You're certain you're ready?” she asked, her tone gentle. “I don't want to inadvertently send you into a panic again.”

“No, no, I think…” He trailed off, taking a deep breath before he finished, “I think I'm all right. And I...I _want_ to be done with this.”

 _For the Inquisition_ , was the first thought that came to mind but _no_. He didn't want this for the Inquisition. Maker, he didn't even want it for Meryell. He'd started this journey before he'd even known her, before he'd even agreed to Cassandra’s offer of a position.

He wanted…

“I want to be free,” breathed Cullen, his voice abruptly dropped to a whisper.

There was silence for a moment after he finished, the sort of silence that followed something that shattered the soul and disturbed the normal order. Then Gil nodded sagely and said, “We will help you get there, Cullen. It will be hard, as we have both said, and there will be things in it that you won't want to face. I believe you can do it.”

“As do I, _isha’len_ ,” murmured Folke.

Feeling his throat go tight with emotion, Cullen just nodded before he coughed hard, trying to clear it before he spoke. His voice was still strained when he finally did but it was clear and certain.

“Then where do we start?”


	40. “Not my fault folks get their knickers in a bunch.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of the gang meets Vivienne (and immediately spawn dislike of her) and then head off to the Storm Coast to deal with the Red Templars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving (if you celebrate it). If not, I hope your weekend in general was fantastic.

Meryell never thought that she could hate the words  _ darling _ or  _ dear _ .

Enchanter Vivienne had a very good chance of making that actually happen. Which was annoying because she frankly got a good giggle every time Dorian drawled  _ darling _ at her.

“Can't we just  _ leave _ Lady Prissy Boots?” grumbled Sera as she flopped down onto the very fancy looking sofa Meryell had sat down on in the main hall of the overly large home while they were waiting for the former First Enchanter to do her  _ preparations _ . “Not like we really need her lot.”

“Her influence could prove useful,” commented Solas from where he stood serenely off to the side, hands folded behind him. “Though it is not to mention that the offer of her joining us was already made by Josephine and accepted before our arrival.”

Sera stuck out her tongue in response and slumped lower so her head was halfway down the back of the sofa. “Didn't ask  _ you _ , Egg,” she muttered. “I asked Quizzy.”

Sighing, Meryell rolled her eyes and wondered why she'd brought the two of them again.  _ Oh, right, because I left Dorian to help keep Cullen distracted, Varric needed a break, and I didn't want to bring Cole because he's been helping with Cullen's nightmares. _

Not that she minded their arguments. Half the time she was entertained by them more than anything as they each gave as good as they got. There had been worse fighting amongst the Fangs. But  _ them _ on top of  _ Vivienne _ , who she already didn't like, was making her want to stab her daggers into her eyes.

At least Blackwall was  _ quiet _ .

“Unfortunately Chuckles is right. Though not on the acceptance.” Meryell shook her head as she went on, “Fucking never confirmed or denied by word. Said she wanted to meet me before she went either way.”

“Maybe she heard you was a merc,” Sera said with as much of a shrug as she could manage.

“Or was offended by your eloquent tongue,” suggested Solas with a smirk. Meryell promptly flashed him a rude gesture and he laughed. “I do not believe the Commander would be much pleased if we were to do such. Not to mention that, as you said upon our meeting, you do not  _ fuck _ your own kind.”

“And you sure as shit know that I didn't mean it that way, asshole,” snapped Meryell as she glared at him. She caught sight of a somewhat horrified looking servant out of the corner of her eye and smiled at the poor girl. It apparently didn't help because her eyes went wide and she disappeared with a sound that was akin to a bird's chirp.

Blackwall let out a gruff snort where he leaned against his sword nearby, arms crossed around the quillons of the heavy blade. As she looked at him, he commented, “You've got quite an effect on people, lass.”

Managing a smirk, she shot back, “Not my fault folks get their knickers in a bunch.” She then sighed and asked aloud, “Shall we just head on to the Maker forsaken Storm Coast without her? It’s not like she’s heading there with us anyway.”

“Nonsense, darling,” came the Enchanter’s voice from above them. They all turned to look as Vivienne descended the stairs in an outfit that didn't look like it would last one turn of a glass in the wilderness, let alone the  _ weeks _ or  _ months _ they tended to spend in the field or on the road. The mage smiled as she reached the base of the stairs, though the expression held very little warmth. “It would simply be a waste to not travel back together even if we are not going to the same destination.”

Like a fucking  _ snake _ smiling was all Meryell could compare it to. She'd met complete and utter bastards with warmer smiles.

“Show  _ you _ a fucking waste, you…” started growling Sera under her breath before Meryell kicked her right heel backwards to hit her in the back of the shin. That had the younger elf jerking upright and cursing a blue streak as she clutched at her leg. “ _ Fuck, Quiz _ .”

Blackwall laughed under his breath and rumbled, “You may have deserved that one, Fuzzhead.”

“Shaddup, Beardy.”

Meryell was watching Vivienne as the exchange went on and her eyes narrowed as the mage’s eyebrows went up in disdain. “How...lovely...your company is,” the Enchanter commented lightly. Her eyes shifted over to Solas then, taking in his tattered robes and light armor that was his preference along with the bare feet, and she sniffed delicately. “Very charming, my dear.”

Clenching her teeth together to keep herself from not saying something utterly fucking rude because the Inquisition could use this woman, Meryell growled, “Yeah, we're a pretty fucking charming lot.”

If she'd been insulting  _ her alone _ , things would be all right. She could take a hit. Sera, Blackwall, and even  _ Chuckles _ were encompassed in her little bubble now though. And this woman was a damned  _ stranger _ sneering down her nose at them.

She didn't normally let  _ anyone _ talk shit about those she took into that bubble.

“A motley group,” commented Solas sagely, one eyebrow arched at her. He then murmured, “ _ Da’len. Ve mar’veth. _ ”

“ _ Ar eolasan, hahren _ ,” she rather snippily replied, narrowing her eyes at him. Why the fuck was everyone under the impression that she couldn't keep her tongue curbed?

Oh, right, because she hadn't fucking pulled out all the shit she'd learned on various jobs over the years. Not really. Not until recently when she had to prove to Josephine that she wasn't completely inept at knowing court protocol and how to play the Game.

She'd never fully played it because she was an elf - and elves were servants or  _ less _ in Orlais - but she knew how. Knowing how to read the score while on a job was as good as knowing how to play it sometimes.

Rising to her feet, Meryell smiled thinly up at Vivienne and said, “Just wait until you meet the rest of the family. You'll fucking love ‘em.”

Sera cackled at that before she leapt up from the sofa, snatching up her bow and quiver from where she'd laid them on the floor. “Right her type, ain't they?” she commented with a broad grin. The elf twirled her bow around her fingers before slinging it over her shoulders, propping her wrists on either end of it. She rocked back and forth from heel to toe for a moment before saying loudly, “So we gonna get movin’ or what? Red tin cans won't kill themselves, Quiz.”

Blackwall snorted half a laugh and clapped the archer on the shoulder. “We'll wait outside,” he uttered gruffly as he swung his sword up onto his shoulder. “Come on, Fuzzhead.”

“Aww, but  _ Beardy _ …”

Meryell smiled as the pair moved towards the door, shaking her head a little at them. They were an odd pair but there was a genuine fondness to their relationship. It reminded her a little of her and Pod...without the initial ire between them.

“Are you certain you don't need me to accompany you, darling?’ asked Vivienne lightly. “It seems so...cruel...to let you run off without a proper mage at hand.”

Now it was Meryell hissing, “ _ Ve mar’veth _ ,” to Solas as he bristled up like an angry hound, his pale eyes narrowed. The Enchanter merely flashed him a bored look and smiled.

“Oh don't look so put out, my dear. It is well known that a mere apostate is simply no match for a well trained mage of a Circle.”

The bald elf’s ears twitched and Meryell growled, “ _ Solas _ .”

He glanced at her, one eyebrow slightly raised because she had never called him by his actual name to his face. Or ever. Then he flicked his eyes back to Vivienne and smiled grimly, his mouth a thin line.

“It is a pity, Enchanter,” he intoned dryly, “that you have so much pride in your own skills and talents that you cannot look beyond them at what others can offer.”

The Iron Lady laughed and the sound  _ grated _ in Meryell's ears before replying, “It is not  _ pride _ , darling, but mere  _ fact _ .”

Solas sniffed in an utterly unimpressed way before he murmured, “My statement stands.” He then sketched an eloquent bow, yet somehow made it feel like  _ mockery _ , to the dark-skinned woman. “Enchanter.”

As he turned, he merely nodded his head at her with a murmured, “ _ Da’len _ ,” and Meryell made a note to tell Josephine to bring out all stops on what supplies he wanted for his paints. If only to keep hearing him turn his snark on the fucking bitch.

“Charming,” commented Vivienne with a chilly smile.

“Very,” agreed Meryell. She stepped up close to the taller woman, fixing her with a dark glare, and growled, “And they’re fucking  _ mine _ . My friends. My family. You fuck with  _ them _ , you fuck with  _ me _ .”

The mage arched an elegant eyebrow and mused, “Your defense of them is admirable, Inquisitor, but such a group of misfits will never get you anywhere in life. It will certainly never keep the Inquisition in power for long.”

Smirking, Meryell replied coldly, “I think we’d give you a damned good surprise on how far we can get. A group of  _ misfits _ stopped the Fifth Blight after all. If we can do as good as them...well, I’d say we’re doing just fine.” She then took a step back and idly rested a hand on the hilt of the dagger strapped behind her hips as she went on. “As for staying in power...we aren’t looking for that.”

She turned away then, moving to follow her companions and assuming that Vivienne would be behind her. After a moment, the Enchanter called out, “Do tell then, darling, what  _ are _ you looking for?”

Stopping in the doorway that the big house’s doorman (Maker, she was sorry for that man, purely on having to work for the woman) had opened for her, Meryell glanced back at the mage and smiled.

“Come and find out,” she answered before she continued on her intended path. Before she passed fully out the door, however, she loudly called one last comment over her shoulder.

“And we’ll see if we’re on the same fucking page, Madame de Fer!”

* * *

When they rode into the Storm’s Solitude camp a full fifteen days after leaving Val Royeaux, Meryell was excited to see more than one familiar face amongst the soldiers and scouts that came to attention. “Harding!” she called out as she swung down from her Forder, giving the horse a heavy pat on the shoulder before she handed his reins off. “You’ve grown the camp since the last time I was here!”

Chuckling, the dwarf replied, “Not me, Inquisitor. I was actually leading a scouting team out in the Exalted Plains after we saw you in Crestwood.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder as she added, “Your good soldier here is the one to thank for the camp growth. He’s even got you another camp already set up and most a third he's been bothering the Red Templars from.”

Said  _ good soldier _ was one of the other familiar faces and Meryell grinned at the dark-haired young man she’d first met in the Hinterlands. It had been almost a year since he’d been working on the map in the Outskirts camp and had given her the directions she’d needed to find Blackwall. She’d occasionally seen him in Skyhold or out in the field since then but had barely been able to say word one to him. “Treno!” she exclaimed. “You’re fucking moving up in the world, I see!”

Treno flushed a little in reply - the sort that came when one felt awkward about praise - and replied, “Aye, Inquisitor. Your good word paid off and the Commander gave me more responsibilities. I’m a Sergeant now.”

“ _ Sergeant _ Treno then.”

He laughed and said, “We can stay with just Treno, ser. Sorry, Inquisitor.”

Flapping a hand at him, Meryell said, “Pff, call me whatever. No skin off my tits.” When he blushed brightly and Harding laughed, she just grinned and continued on. “So!  _ Sergeant. _ I want to hear what the fuck is going on. I hear we’ve got a militia being a semi-thorn in our backsides alongside the templars.”

“Aye, ser,” Treno replied with a sharp nod. “We have the exact locations of each of our maps in the command tent.”

“Then what the shite are we waiting for?” called out Sera just before Meryell could say something that was close enough to the same. “Come on, Quiz, I’ve got arrows and no fools to shoot!”

Shaking her head, she then heard Blackwall gruffly remark, “I’m certain we’ll see plenty of fools soon.”

“Better!”

“If only to perhaps earn a moment of silence in return,” commented Solas wryly.

“No one asked  _ you _ , Eggy.”

“Ah, my apologies. I was unaware that my opinion could not be given freely. My mistake.”

Snorting a laugh at them, Meryell called out, “Enough, you lot! We’re on a stupid fucking timetable so let’s get in here, sort shit, and go home. How about that?”

Sera was suddenly at her side, the younger elf looping her arm through Meryell’s, and grinning happily. “I think that’s been the best idea this whole trip, Quiz,” she commented. Then she narrowed her eyes and asked, “Still get to shoot fools full of arrows though, right?”

“But of course,” replied Meryell in mock seriousness.

“ _ Grand _ . Beardy! Egg! Get your arses movin’! We got shit to kill!”

“News first,  _ then _ kill shit,” Meryell noted sagely, laughing as Sera stuck out her tongue in response. She then turned to look at Treno and asked, “So...militia?”

He nodded and gestured for them to follow him over to the largest tent in the camp, leading them in past the soldier that stood guarding it to where a very young looking male elf in scout’s armor sat sorting through reports. “Inquisitor!” he yelped, leaping up. “Sergeant, I…”

“ _ Relax _ , Dervin,” Treno said sternly. “Are those the reports on the Blades of Hessarian?”

“Oh, yes, ser. Though there’s still that, ah…” Dervin paused after he handed the papers off to the camp’s officer and flicked a wide-eyed gaze between Meryell and Treno before he finished, “Problem.”

“ _ Problem? _ ” she repeated, arching an eyebrow at the sergeant. Treno sighed wearily in reply and flicked his fingers through the reports for a moment before he drew out a specific one. As he extended it towards her, Harding ducked into the tent with an oddly grim look on her face.

The dwarf was silent for a moment before she asked, “That about the missing scouts?”

“We have missing men?” Meryell asked, her eyes narrowed in concern. Why did the Inquisition forces keep getting themselves captured or just went up and missing? If they kept this up, it was going to become an uncomfortable trend.

“Possibly missing,” stressed Treno as he cast a slight frown towards Harding. He then went on, “We’ve been avoiding the group ourselves but once Harding arrived, we sent a group of our mixed scouts off to try and make contact with the Blades. Haven’t heard from them in five days.”

Arching an eyebrow, she mused aloud, “I’m guessing they were supposed to report back before now.”

“Two days ago,” answered Harding as she crossed her arms. “They’ve been out for over a week and the last report we received of their progress was four days ago. Thought they had a lead to get in with the group and were going to test their theory.”

Frowning heavily, Meryell squeezed Sera’s arm where it was still tucked through her own and looked down at the younger elf as she asked, “You up for pushing back shooting fools?”

“Shit, Quizzy, the frigging things I do for you,” she replied with an overly theatrical sigh. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go find your scouts.”

“Such a sacrifice,” commented Solas dryly. “I appear to have to amend my definition of the word. I was truly unaware that it involved the possibility of giving up the opportunity to shoot people full of arrows.”

“A grave mistake,” rumbled Blackwall and she could practically  _ feel _ the man’s wry grin.

“Shaddup, Eggy. And don’t you start shite, Beardy.”

Sighing at the three of them, Meryell nodded towards Treno and Harding and said firmly, “Give us where they were working from. We’ll figure this shit out and hopefully have those scouts back in two shakes a nug’s tail.”

With all luck, this would turn out as good as the mission to rescue their captured soldiers in the Fallow Mire.

* * *

“You and your companions are very formidable, Your Worship.”

Meryell winced at the title, which was the one of the things she regretted from deciding to recruit the Blades of Hessarian instead of taking them out: they  _ kept _ using that damned title. Not to mention that they as a whole treaded hard on the edge of zealotry and she'd always been hard pressed to deal with that sort. The group, however, had a strange sort of nobility in that they accepted her as their leader after she'd defeated the former in combat with the necklace they'd found notes on.

She’d been so close to taking them out that it was a little terrifying.

Anger at the death of  _ her men _ had nearly sent her bolting spitting mad back towards the Storm’s Solitude camp. Blackwall, though, had stopped her and held up the letter they'd found in her face, sternly shaking it and noting that whoever had killed their men had orders from someone higher up.

“It doesn't make it  _ right _ ,” the man had said firmly, his eyes telling far more than he probably realized. “Maker, it isn’t right at all. But we  _ can't _ ...no, we  _ shouldn't  _ punish a soldier for following his orders. Not like this, lass.”

She'd narrowed her eyes at him and somehow managed to swallow the rage. Because, at the end of things, he was right. She'd done things on orders that she didn't like. So had Folke. Cullen. Arnald. And so had Blackwall. She could feel it in her bones.

She just didn't know  _ which  _ side he knew it from.

So they'd made the Mercy’s Crest, killed the fucker who'd ordered her men's deaths (and found a  _ lovely _ note detailing how exactly he thought of the Inquisition), and gained a whole militia of near bandits that had an  _ overly  _ healthy love of Andraste.

And she'd promptly told them they'd make up for the deaths of hers by doing whatever her Commander demanded for the loss. They didn't talk work enough for her to know what he did in recompense for the death of his soldiers and her time in the Fangs didn't lend any help. Most of them either had their family in the company, the company  _ was _ their family, or their family didn't want anything to do with a  _ dirty, rotten mercenary _ . Arnald rarely had to leave the keep to give condolences and they were mostly given in large amounts of booze anyway.

The other thing they could do was help clear the Red Templars out of the damned Storm Coast. To say they'd taken to it with a fervor would have been a drastic understatement.

Forcing a smile, Meryell looked over at the man who'd come to stand next to her at the edge of the ancient port the templars had taken over. “You and yours aren't too fucking bad yourself, Ivor,” she commented.

He merely smiled and shrugged. “To the common foe, perhaps, Your Worship. If you had chosen to kill us in return for your men, we very likely would not be standing here.”

“Against four people?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. “I don’t think one sodding man in my company would take that bet. Not in a nug’s year.”

Ivor chuckled at that and replied, “Perhaps you would be surprised.”

Meryell tilted her head at him curiously for a moment then shook her head. She wasn’t going to argue with the man, not with the Red Templars soundly routed and out of the Storm Coast. Not to mention the fact that they could probably take control of this port and bring it up back up to snuff.

Mmm, an access to the Waking Sea of their own wasn’t a bad idea at all.

Zarru could even arrange a few  _ quiet _ supply runs from her sneakier seafaring friends. And they’d keep it nice and quiet from Josephine that most of those reputable sources of the Fangs’ second were just the best at hiding. Maybe.

After judging them reputable and then finding out they weren’t so much so, the ambassador might just be impressed. Once she was done being pissed, of course.

Smiling widely to herself, Meryell folded her arms as she gazed out at the choppy waves of the Waking Sea and asked, “Will the Blades of Hessarian serve, Ivor?”

“Wherever Andraste sees fit that you should send us, Your Worship,” he replied and she just  _ barely _ managed to hold back her flinch. Maker’s swollen prick, it’d been hard enough dealing with the breathy, reverent little way that some of the Inquisition members called her  _ Herald _ . She wasn’t certain she’d ever get used to the Blades if they kept calling her that.

“Here in the Storm Coast for now,” she said quickly, trying to shake the slight uneasiness off. “Our main forces are going to be focused elsewhere for the next few months so I need someone to...well...literally hold down the fucking fort. You think that’s you lot?”

Ivor just stared at her for a moment before he brought a clenched fist up over his heart and inclined his head slightly. Because Ivor was as Ferelden as she was and Fereldens didn’t  _ bow _ to each other. Not unless they were being mocking. “The Blades will serve, Your Worship.”

“Good.” Meryell nodded sharply then asked, “Any way you and the rest can refer to me as something besides  _ Your Worship _ ?”

Now the man looked confused and he asked, “Is that not the proper title? I have heard a great number of your soldiers speaking of you as  _ Her Worship _ .”

_ Fucking fuck cunt _ , thought Meryell.  _ Why can’t they just stick to Inquisitor? Or Herald? I can handle fucking Herald. _

“I’m certain if you asked our ambassador she would tell you it was but I’m not…” Frowning, Meryell blew out a breath loudly before she went on, “I’m not comfortable with the term.  _ Your Worship _ . I’m not some pretty statue to put up on some fucking stone plinth to bow and bend your head to.”

Turning her head, she stared hard at the man and hissed out, “ _ I _ have never claimed to be anything divine.”

“Neither did Andraste in her time,” commented Ivor mildly, sending a flash of panic through her. He then nodded and went on, “If it displeases, however, I will attempt to use another title and see that the others do the same. You proved worthy of wielding the Blades when you bore Mercy’s Crest and defeated Fredig. It is the least we can do.”

The man then tilted his head to the side and asked, “Will Inquisitor serve?”

“I’ll take it over  _ Your Worship _ or  _ Herald _ any day,” replied Meryell with a smile she didn’t feel. Andraste’s dimpled ass, she was  _ tired _ of people thinking that she was holy.

Maybe if she took Andraste and the Maker’s names in vain more often…

They fell into silence then and stood there like that for several breaths before Ivor asked, “Where shall the Blades strike first, Inquisitor?”

Smiling out at the sea, Meryell replied, “Make me a port, Ivor. It would be useful for all of us to have it. And remember that you represent the Inquisition now so…” Breaking into a laugh, she finished, “Let’s try not to let our thievery get caught,” and held up the small pair of knives she’d stolen off of him.

He blinked at her before he threw back his head in a boisterous laugh, highly amused as he took them back from her and returned them to their sheaths. As he brought his fist back up to his heart again in a quick salute, Ivor said, “As you order, Inquisitor,” before he turned and strode off into the depths of the mix of cave and dwarven ruins.

Chuckling, Meryell smiled after him before she turned back to the view.

Other than the zealotry, she could probably get to like the de facto leader of the Blades of Hessarian.

And Josephine might even ignore the thievery if they gave the Inquisition a working port.

Fingers crossed, anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Elven/Elvhen Translations **
> 
> Ve mar’veth - turn your back (ve - away, behind / mar - your / veth - back, bottom)
> 
> Ar eolasan - I know


	41. “You...you think a long fucking way ahead, vhen’an.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Halamshiral looms ever closer, Skyhold's residents slowly lose their minds and Meryell tries to hold at least one thing together in the chaos that follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 200k! This is now almost halfway to being my longest fanfic.
> 
> NSFW about halfway through. Full on sexy times are go from halfway on.

From the moment they arrived back at Skyhold during the last days of Kingsway, Meryell and every soul in the keep and the camps got swept up into the madness that was the preparations for Halamshiral. With only a month between them and the peace talks occurring at the Winter Palace during Satinalia, Josephine was having the equivalent of a never ending panic attack.

Or a mental breakdown. _That_ was also an option.

To be honest, Meryell was feeling torn halfway between strangling the poor woman on general principle and forcing her to _sit the fuck down for one Maker damned turn of a glass_ to simply breathe.

She didn’t do either option, however, because in what little free time she did have, she was keeping her own sodding _fool_ from effectively sending himself into another lyrium attack due to putting himself through too much stress.

* * *

“You are going to _kill yourself_ ,” she hissed to him during the last major repetition of such instances, dragging him through the space that lay between his office and the keep. “And don’t give me that fucking look. I sat down with Gil and had her explain this whole bit of shit spit so I know what I’m damned well talking about.”

Cullen grunted from behind her as they passed through Solas’ rotunda with only a mild glance and an arched eyebrow from the mage perched on the couch. As they stepped into the main hall, he grumbled, “You can’t even _see me_.”

“I know the fucking look, Cullen!”

As soon as her voice went high and shrill, he stopped abruptly and pulled her to a halt as well. It was, thankfully, late enough that there was no one left in the hall and the wall sconces that normally illuminated it were burning low. So she didn’t feel too overly exposed when he spun her around to face him and pulled her close. Meryell clutched at the fabric of his tunic immediately in response and pressed her forehead against the bone at the center of his chest as she let out several harsh breaths. After a moment, he squeezed her arms after his hands slid down from her shoulders and bent his head to kiss her hair.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” he murmured, his Elvish pronunciation much improved from practice with her. “ _Forgive me_ , dear thief. I’m not…” He sighed heavily into her hair before finishing, “You know I’m not used to _not_ pushing through the stress and pain. Old habits are hard to break.”

“I know but I…” She drew in a deep breath then let a torrent of words flow out of her that had nothing to do with the sentence she’d started. “Gil told me that even with the lyrium you can still have an attack. That _another_ on top of the one you just came out of could be...detrimental. And we...we can’t lose you. _I_ can’t lose you.”

His hands slid away from her arms and around to her back, cradling her lower back as he pulled her tightly against him.

“She told me the same thing as well,” Cullen intoned in a low voice. “I’ve been...Maker, I’ve been doing my _best_ , love.” He let out a heavy sigh as his voice cracked on a single note and Meryell lifted her head then to look up at him. His gaze was fully away from her, eyes on the area of the main hall that held that damnable Inquisition throne, and his throat bounced as he swallowed hard. Then he did turn his face back down to her and said softly. “There’s only so much I can delegate.”

“I know.”

Sighing, Meryell leaned her head against his chest again and shuddered. When his arms tightened reflexively around her, she breathed, “I’m just so _scared_ , Cullen.”

He barked a hoarse laugh and asked, “How do you think I felt when you ran out to face Corypheus?” Then his nose nuzzled at her hair before he bent enough to press a kiss against the top of one of her ears. “I had faith you’d come back.”

Freezing, she murmured, “And I said I had faith in you doing this.” Closing her eyes, she felt like a heel. Fuck the Maker and everything holy, she’d let her fear rule her as she’d watched him dig himself back down into a hole and let her _forget_. Let it make her sound as if she didn’t think he could do this. “Cullen, I…”

“Shh,” bid Cullen in response. “We’re all stressed, _vhen’an_.”

“That’s no excuse for me as good as shitting saying I’m afraid of you dying!”

One of his hands was on her chin then, gently pressing her to lift her head and wasn’t taking _no_ was an answer when she resisted. When he finally brought her face up towards his, Cullen leaned down and kissed her softly. He cupped her cheek in his palm as he kept the kiss going in gentle but firm explorations of her lips and Meryell couldn’t help but press herself against him and whine as heat bloomed at her core.

“ _I’m_ afraid of me dying,” he said quietly as he pulled away enough to speak. “Just as I’m afraid of _you_ dying. We live dangerous lives, love, that is something that we both know all too well. Yet I…”

He trailed off and Meryell leaned into him, arching up so she could press a kiss against the scar on his lip. “What?” she asked softly.

“I look forward to the day all of this is over more than I fear either,” Cullen finished. “When we don’t have to spend our days worrying about lyrium or troop reports or when you’re leaving next. When we don’t have to be _Inquisitor_ and _Commander_ and can just be ourselves. Just Meryell and Cullen. That’s part of what makes me want to work so hard, besides the pain and the lyrium. I want to _get there_. With you.”

Blinking several times as her heart started fluttering wildly in her chest as his words, she breathed, “You...you think a long fucking way ahead, _vhen’an_.”

He just chuckled lightly and replied, “A lot longer than I used to. I didn’t…” Sighing, he stopped and tilted his head towards the door that led to her tower and asked, “Shall we go up, love? Assuming you _were_ dragging me up to your room and not down to the prison to throw me off the waterfall.”

She blinked a little at the change of subject, wondering where he had been about to go, what he had been about to say. Then Meryell nodded and slowly pulled away from him even as she slipped her hand back into his. “Yes,” she intoned softly with a smile.

They moved past the pair of guards who were always stationed just inside the door of her tower with a pair of shy smiles. Cullen’s expression briefly turned into a glare as the woman, Seanna, giggled until her partner, Covell, hissed, “Ahn! It’s disrespectful to act like that around the Inquisitor and the Commander!”

As Meryell tugged him on up the stairs, they heard her reply, “But they’re _adorable_ , Vell.”

“And you’re going to get us _dismissed_ by saying our superiors are adorable.”

Laughing brightly, the sound echoing in the stairwell, Meryell turned to look back at Cullen, who was flushing brightly with embarrassment. Smiling, she stopped for a moment to turn back and kiss his forehead as she murmured, “They do it because they care, love.”

“Oh I know that,” he grumbled in reply as she went back to climbing the stairs. “Doesn’t make me feel any less awkward.”

“She only said it because it’s late.”

Cullen snorted at that. “I _know_ , love. I’m not going to dismiss a soldier just because she called us adorable and embarrassed me. We’d be out of them in weeks.” As Meryell snorted at that and started digging in her pockets for the key to her door, he added, “She may end up digging latrines for the lower camps for a few days, though.”

“ _Harsh_ ,” she commented before finally finding what she was seeking and slotted it into the door. As soon as they were inside and she locked it back behind them, she began to shiver and cursed, “Maferath’s shriveled ballsack, it’s colder than the Iron Lady’s cunt up here.”

“Colder than _what_ ?” repeated Cullen as they moved up the small set of stairs into the room. Meryell didn’t answer immediately, choosing instead to move towards the fireplace to get it started. She could hear him behind her as he moved to pull the heavy curtains over the windows to attempt to stop the chill getting in through there and turned to look as he abruptly sputtered, “Varric calls Madame Vivienne _Iron Lady_.”

When she just nodded, he frowned and said, “That was _rude._ ”

“Given her attitude, I expect she’s fucking frozen inside,” grumbled Meryell as she grabbed the small firestarter from its little box on the mantle and bent to start the fire. She crouched there cursing for several moments as the scrap parchment she’d thrust into the center of the logs continually failed to catch. Finally she managed to catch a spark and rose to her feet after waiting to make sure that it actually moved to the carefully arranged logs, putting the little bit of flint and metal that she’d used to start it back into its box. Only then did she turned back towards Cullen to find him standing in the middle of the room, frowning sternly at her.

Sighing, she asked, “Should I not call her that even if she does seem like she’s the most cold-hearted bitch in the whole of Thedas,” as she tilted her head at him.

Cullen snorted and reached out for her, a movement that she took as an invitation. As she burrowed into the circle of his arms and his chest, he said, “Even then. She’s still a member of the Inquisition now.”

Huffing, Meryell grumbled, “Fine. Less rudeness towards the Frost Queen.” She then leaned her head against his chest and asked, “What was it you didn’t want to say down in the hall?”

When he didn’t immediately reply, she leaned back and frowned up at him. “Cullen?” she queried as he was looking anywhere but at her, chewing slightly on the inside of his lower lip.

“Hmm?” His eyes, soft amber in the light from the fire, flicked down to meet hers and then he smiled sheepishly. “Oh. I...well…”

Meryell slid her hands around his waist and rested her chin against his chest, waiting patiently for him to regather himself for whatever it was he had been going to say. It took him a long moment, in which he stood there awkwardly with one arm around her and the other rubbing at the back of his neck. Then he shook himself and moved to encircle her again, pulling her tightly against him.

“I never used to think of the future,” he intoned softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “After...after the Tower I thought...Maker, I thought I was broken. Shattered. I threw myself into the Order, into serving, because it was all I knew. I thought it was all that I was: to be a templar and hold the line against magic, to be the Chantry’s sword. And then…”

“Meredith,” she offered a little bleakly. Fuck, did she _hate_ that woman.

Cullen chuckled and replied, “I was actually going to say Hawke. She...she was nothing like what an apostate was supposed to be. And she helped me, saved me, without even thinking about the fact that she was a mage and I was a templar on our first meeting. I’m sure it occurred to her _after_ the fact but right then I was merely someone who needed her help.”

He paused and Meryell just blinked up at him before he went on.

“By all rights I should have taken her in but there was...I don’t know. I honestly don’t know what I saw in her. I _knew_ she was a mage but I couldn’t bear the thought of bringing her in.” He bowed his head as he finished, “Taking her in would have broken her utterly and I...I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t…”

As he trailed off, the words choking in his throat, Meryell slid a hand up to cup his cheek in her hand. Their eyes met and she breathed, “You couldn’t bear the thought of doing the same thing to her that had been done to you.”

Cullen let out a gasp of breath then and nodded before he spoke up again. “I did it to others so easily though, even after that,” he went on, “but, yes, she was the start of breaking down the...Maker, the _monster_ I’d become. Every year chipped away another bit of the parts of me that I let turn to stone, that I had refused to feel. I began to _see_ what was being done and to want something better than just hate and fear. It wasn’t what the Order was supposed to be. It wasn’t what _I_ had ever meant to be.”

She wanted to say something - fuck, part of her wanted to ask if he’d had the same sort of infatuation with Treva Hawke that he’d had with Kath Surana - but Meryell chose to remain silent. If he had, she wouldn’t care since it was in the past but right then was no place to ask that question. Instead she brought her other arm up so she could arch up onto her toes and wrap her arms around his neck. Just as she did, he abruptly moved with a growl, his hands sliding down to grasp her thighs and lift her up. His nose bumped awkwardly against hers right before she realized what he wanted and then Meryell was pulling herself close, winding her arms tight around his neck and clinging with her legs as he kissed her like a man drowning.

When he pulled back, Cullen leaned his forehead against hers and _shook_ , as he stood there breathing heavily with her in his arms.

“After everything in Kirkwall, I still thought that there was nothing left to cling to but the Order...but it had betrayed me. My brothers and sisters had betrayed _themselves_ . What did I _owe_ to them when they had done such harm? What did I owe them when they would have just _abandoned me_ ?” His voice was rough and harsh, old anger and rage making it shake as much as he was. Meryell kissed him lightly and he let out a breath before saying, “And then...Cassandra. She gave me an out. Service to a better cause, a _noble_ cause. To no longer _have_ to be a sword to be wielded by those in power but to be _my own_. Yet...still...I thought of only duty, just simply duty to a different cause.”

“Until?” queried Meryell softly, her heart abruptly pounding again. She was certain he could feel it hammering himself with the way their chests were pressed together.

His arms tightened around her before he breathed, “Until _you_ , dear thief. You…” Cullen paused to take a breath and shifted his grip on her, clutching at her thighs as if he never wanted to let go. “You looked at me as a man before anything else. You’ve never let me back down from the things I’ve done but also never let me take blame utterly for them. And you’ve seen me at some of my worse and you’re _still here._ ”

“So, _yes_ ,” he went on hurriedly, his voice cracking a little, “I’m thinking far ahead. Because...because I love you, Meryell Verlen, and I _never_ intend on letting you go. Wherever I end up after this is over, I want you there. Or wherever you go, I want to be there with you.”

“Cullen,” she breathed, shaking her head a little.

Suddenly he turned his head away, cheeks flushed, as he awkwardly stammered, “Of course, I-I don’t know what you…”

Meryell didn’t hesitate to pull herself hard against him, to twist around and capture his mouth with her own. He grunted in surprise before letting out a pleased hum as she delved her tongue into his mouth, his own rising to war with hers as he began to move. They were abruptly vertical a moment later as he just fell back onto the bed and she took the opportunity of the new position to shift downward. As she ground her hips down over the obvious bulge of his cock, Cullen jerked his hips reflexively up into her and growled as she moaned into his mouth response.

Before things went too far, she pulled back and brought her hands to his face, stroking the few lines at the edges of his eyes before she breathed, “You think I don’t feel the same?”

“I think,” he grunted in reply, “that I sometimes still wonder why this beautiful woman chose to stay with a man as broken as me.”

“Then I would reply,” she softly intoned as she laid herself down on top of him, “with the question of why such a handsome man would choose to stay with a rude little shit like me.”

“Do I need to answer?” asked Cullen with a smile as he lifted a hand to run his fingers through her hair. His fingertips idly brushed over her ear and for the first time in so long she did not flinch at the touch. It didn’t even register that she should. “Must I remind her of all the things she’s done?”

Meryell smiled and replied, “I think I might need a bit of a refresher. Do _you_ , ser?”

He was grinning now as his other hand gripped her hip, his own shuddering underneath her. “I think I might just,” he answered, his voice shaking a little. Though hopefully this time from far different emotions than it had earlier.

“Well...I think I can help with that.”

She sat up then, arching herself back before grinding down on him again, causing him to moan and grip her hips hard enough to bruise as he thrust up against her again. Gasping, Meryell managed to pull her tunic over her head and tossed it aside before she loosened the bindings of her breastband and let it follow.

“ _Maker’s breath_.”

“Nevermind him,” she hissed, leaning forward to kiss him. As she leaned back, resting on all fours above him with her breasts on full display, Meryell added, “He has no involvement in this.”

“Beg to fucking differ,” grunted Cullen before he pulled her down on top of him. His mouth found one of her nipples and sucked, causing her to gasp and writhe against him. He took his time as well, trading between the two until she was practically crying from the sensations, her legs shaking as the space between them ached to be filled. When he finally lifted her up, placing her back into a sitting position on top of him, he smirked as he said, “I prefer to think he brought you here. To me. Exactly when I needed you the most.”

“That so?” Meryell gasped as she swayed headily in his grip, her body too limp to hold herself up. “I’d thank him for doing the same if I believed in him.” She somehow managed to pluck at his shirt and managed to add, “Right now you’re wearing too many damned clothes.”

Laughing, Cullen replied, “Says the woman still wearing her pants!” He did, however, lift her up so he could wriggle out from under her, leaving her lying supine on the bed as he rolled to his feet. She just laid there blinking for a moment, feeling her body hum and watching him as he tugged his long-sleeved shirt off and let it drop immediately to the floor. When he toed off his boots standing up and began undoing the buckle of his belt, she realized that she should start doing the same or she was going to be the one behind.

Meryell managed to kick off her boots and wriggle out of her pants, but just as she hooked her fingers into the fabric of her smallclothes to jerk them downward, a warm hand stopped her. Cullen leaned over her, delightfully bare except for his own smalls (though they did _nothing_ to hide what was within them), and breathed, “Let me, _vhen’an_.”

“Only if I get to do yours too,” she replied, sliding her hand across the bed to touch his thigh. The muscle twitched underneath her palm and she smiled, feeling absolutely _glorious_ in that she got that sort of reaction by touch alone. That and she hadn’t had a chance yet to see him utterly naked or to touch all of him.

“I believe we can have an accord,” purred Cullen before he bent to kiss her. Then he smiled, color high in his cheeks, before he breathed, “May I...Maker…I want…” Abruptly he closed his eyes and let his head drop to where it rested on her breasts.

“Fuck, this was easier in my head.”

Laughing, she pulled him back up to her, kissing him gently, and asked, “What do you want to do, love? I’m _yours._ Whatever you fucking want.”

That seemed to embolden him and he blurted out, “Taste you.”

Meryell frowned because she hadn’t heard that term before then his thumb hooked in her smalls and he cast a brief look down towards...oh. _Oh_ . Maker’s aching cock and Andraste’s dripping cunt, she owed that widow from Kirkwall a fucking _gift_ of some kind. Gold, jewels, a damned dragon skull... _something_.

Half the men she’d bedded in her life hadn’t even _known_ how to please a woman there. And most of the rest were shit at it.

Rylen deserved something too because he’d been the one to urge Cullen to start that whole thing.

“ _Yes_ ,” she breathed, before adding with a smile, “Are you looking to make all my imaginings about us come true, _vhen’an_?”

Cullen smiled, the expression a little shy and a bit wicked all at once, as he replied, “I might.” Then he lifted her, shifting her up the bed until she was resting mostly on her pillows, and sprawled himself out below her. His shoulders were even with her hips now and she could already feel her thigh muscles twitching with anticipation.

He glanced up at her, eyes bright and she quietly locked that particular image away: of him lying below her, the warm glow of the now blazing fire dancing across his skin, his hair mussed from its usual careful confines and turning back to its natural curls, and his eyes nearly black, the amber a thin line around the outer edges. Then Cullen hooked both hands into her smalls and pulled them down her legs without much ceremony, tossing them aside without looking away from her once. As he lifted her leg over his shoulder and shifted over, his nostrils flaring a little, she let out a breathy little gasp.

She felt his fingers touching her, carefully sifting through the dark curls to find what they hid, then one delved into her. Meryell arched up off of the bed as Cullen crooked a finger inside her cunt, a Tevene curse spilling from her tongue without thought to what she was saying. Then she felt cold air, followed swiftly by warm breath, and then her entire world _dissolved_ as he closed his mouth over the aching bud within her sex. He licked it - once, twice, _three times_ \- with the flat of his tongue and she curled her hands into his hair. Then he hummed, the vibrations rippling through her, and Meryell felt his hands grip her hips tightly before he sucked on that most sensitive part of her.

“ _Cullen!_ ” she gasped, trying to buck her hips into his face but he held fast. “Please. _Please!_ ” Meryell tugged at his hair, pawed at his shoulders, and ground her heels into the small of his back as he just laid there _suckling_ on her. Her hands then found his hair again and she whined, “ _Maker and his fucking Bride, please!_ ”

“Soon,” he rumbled, his voice slightly muffled by where he was at. Then his mouth was purely focused on her again, alternating between licking and sucking and swirling his tongue around her. She swore that she lost track of time in the wake of the sensations as the aching heat between her thighs built, urged onward and upward by the _wicked_ man between them. Meryell sobbed and swore as she felt the peak coming, her legs shaking so hard that she couldn’t clench them around him like she wanted to. She was ready to fall over the crest of that peak, feeling like a glass rolling towards the edge of a table, just waiting for the moment of _shattering_.

Then Cullen pulled away and she nearly _screamed_.

Meryell somehow managed to notice through the haze of lust that had taken over almost every thought that he was breathing hard as he rose over her. He bent to kiss her then and she tasted herself on his lips, warm and a little salty.

“ _Vhen’an_ ,” he breathed, his voice shaking. Then his hand found hers and lifted it up to rest her fingers at his hip, where his smallclothes hid the last piece of him away from her. “ _Please._ ”

“Fuck,” she hissed and hooked her fingers onto one side. Meryell took a moment to shake her head, trying to clear some of the haze, then reached up to grasp the other side. She then grumbled, “Should’ve done this _earlier_ ,” before working to tug them down from around his hips.

Cullen just laughed breathlessly, “Hindsight.” Then his hand closed over hers as she couldn’t quite manage to get his smalls off from their position and shifted so he could get do so himself. As soon as he let them fall off the edge of the bed, she was dragging him down on top of her with a snarl from her throat and an exclamation of surprise from his.

His full weight coming down on her without any sort of bracing on his part was a bit of a shock, driving her into the mattress with a wordless exclamation of surprise. It was _exactly_ what she wanted, however, and when he tried to lift himself up, she clung to him tightly.

“Meryell, _Meryell_ ,” he hissed, still trying to pull away. “Maker’s breath, woman...did I…” He finally got an elbow braced underneath him and sat up, wild eyed, his curls even more askew than usual. “Did I hurt you?”

“The only thing hurting me,” she snarled back as she lifted her hips to grind against his cock where it was trapped between them along her belly, “is that you’re not _fucking me_.”

“I do not _fuck_ ,” he growled back before he dove down to kiss her soundly. Meryell tried to arch her hips again but this time Cullen used his weight against her, pinning her to the mattress. She whined in the back of her throat even as she responded to the kiss, needing him to do something else, _anything else_.

Immediately after she thought that, he did exactly that. Cullen brought his knees up underneath him as he wrapped his arms around her and growled, “Hold on.” She locked her ankles behind the small of his back and her arms around his neck in response and gasped as he straightened up, kneeling on the bed with her in his arms. His cock bumped teasingly against her core then he was moving again.

As soon as he was underneath her with her sitting astride his chest, her ass brushing the shaft of his cock, she knew what he was about. Smiling slyly, Meryell braced her hands on his chest and slowly moved backwards, rubbing herself over the part of him that was paying a rather lot of attention to what was going on. He made a choking noise and then his hands closed over her hips, stopping her motion.

For a moment they just sat there, their heavy breaths the only sound in the room beyond the crackling of the fire, then he growled again, “I don’t _fuck._ Not you. Not ever.”

Leaning forward so her breasts were flattened against his chest, she kissed his collarbone and asked, “What then?”

“Love,” he replied, almost absently smoothing his fingers over her hips where his grip from earlier had surely bruised her. Cullen’s face was open and honest as he laid beneath her, flushed and needy. “This is nothing so crude.”

Her mood, which had been a little sharp in its neediness, softened in the face of that. Smiling, Meryell brought a hand up to touch his face and breathed, “No, nothing so crude, _vhen’an_. This is...”

“ _Ir’ina’lan’ehn_ ,” he supplied with a sly smile. As Meryell sat up in surprise, he nodded almost to himself before adding in Common, “So very beautiful.”

“I didn’t teach you that word,” she said softly. When he kept smiling up at her, she leaned forward slightly and asked, “Did you...did you ask Folke to teach you?”

“I did,” he returned as he slowly ran his hands up her sides, sliding them over her arms and shoulders until he could cup her face in his hands. Cullen’s smile was broad and bright as he added, “I wanted to tell you in _your tongue_ how lovely you are. How beautiful _this_ is. That you let me touch you, let me _love you_ , when I deserve none of it. It is a gift. _You_ are a gift. And I don’t ever intend on letting you go.”

Meryell just stared down at him for a moment, her throat tight with emotion, before she brought her hands down to rest on his chest. “ _Ir’ina’lan’ehn_ ,” she breathed. Then she rose up onto her knees so his cock slipped underneath her and gasped, “You are all I need, _vhen’an_.”

“ _Meryell_ ,” breathed Cullen then he was reaching between them, grasping himself in his hand and carefully positioning himself against her opening. She threw back her head, whining, before she slowly began to sink down onto him.

Given that it had been a little while since she’d had any partner in bed besides her own fingers, there was pressure for several breaths as she stretched around him. He certainly wasn’t the largest she’d taken but she’d learned long ago that it wasn’t about _size_.

It was what you knew how to do with it.

Cullen was shaking and shuddering underneath her as her cunt slowly embraced his cock, his fingers digging tightly into her hips and his teeth clenched. She could feel his hips twitching, resisting the animalistic need to thrust up into her, instead letting her descend at her own pace. Meryell smiled and laid her hands over his, squeezing the tense palms and rubbing the back of his hands soothingly.

Then he was _there_ , fitted utterly inside her to the hilt, and she closed her eyes for a moment to just luxuriate in the _feel_ of him. A moment later Cullen cursed and thrust his hips up into her and Meryell gasped before her own rocked instinctively into him in return. That pulled a groan out of him that made her pulse jump and her toes curl and she wanted _more_.

Looking down at him, she breathed, “ _Go_ ,” before she rolled her hips.

The word and motion seemed to spark a chain reaction. Abruptly Cullen’s teeth were bared and he growled her name before bucking up into her again. She arched her back and cried his name as he released one of her hips to touch her breasts, stroking and teasing. It was like a wildfire between them, blazing forth from a single flame and catching point after point, thing after thing, burning higher and brighter until it was a beacon in the night.

Meryell gasped his name desperately as she ground down onto him and in the next moment felt his hand at the crux of her legs, fingers delving into the wet curls. His calloused thumb found that swollen knot at the head of her cunt and, with one quick swipe, she was _gone_ . If their first time of actually touching without clothes between them had felt like falling and flying at the same time, this was something she couldn’t put words to. Couldn’t put _feelings to_ other than it consumed her, body and soul.

And it kept pulsing through her, leaving her gasping and grinding desperately against him, as Cullen chased his own completion beneath her. Meryell wished she could help him as he’d helped her but she could tell from the frantic snapping of his hips that he was close. So close, in fact, that he came with a shout a bare second after she’d wished she could help him, fingers clutching hard into her hips. Three more weaker thrusts followed before he collapsed weakly onto the bed, his chest heaving and his eyes closed.

“ _Maker_ ,” he breathed and Meryell smiled before she groaned as she moved towards the space next to him. He slid out of her easily thanks to their combined juices and her legs shook violently before she collapsed next to Cullen, aching but more than sated.

As she cuddled up next to him and rested her head on his shoulder, tracing nonsense patterns over his chest, she said softly, “Still not here.”

Cullen let out a tired laugh at that and curled his arm around her, lightly smoothing his fingers over her hip. “No,” he replied, “but I’ve got something better.”

“Oh?”

He turned his head to smile down at her then pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I’ve got _you_.”

“Why, _vhen’an_ ,” teased Meryell, “I think that was almost blasphemous.”

“I think the Maker will understand,” he replied with another tired laugh.

She merely hummed in reply, sleep and exhaustion already dragging her down into the Fade, when a chill ran over her. Meryell yelped and flicked her fingers against Cullen’s side, saying sharply, “Cover. Your hot nature is not going to save us from the cold.”

He laughed at that and they spent an awkward moment freeing the folded down blankets from underneath them. As Cullen finally managed to pull them up over them, he rolled over onto his side and pulled her close, sliding his leg between hers as he kissed her forehead. Sighing contentedly, Meryell burrowed into his chest and wrapped her arms around him as she could already feel the heat he put off warming the once cold space around them.

She then tipped her head up, bumping his chin with her nose, and murmured, “ _Ar lath ‘ma vhen’an._ ”

“ _At lath ‘ma_ ,” Cullen rumbled back, his voice already rough with sleep.

Two breaths later, they were both gone, sleeping the sleep of the well and truly exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven/Elvhen Translations**
> 
> ir’ina’lan’ehn - gorgeous, very beautiful


	42. “To remind me of what, spirit? The wrongs I've done? Those I've hurt? I need no reminder of that!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the wonderful night before, Cullen is dragged to waking by a nightmare that goes from one horror to another. The theme of switching from bad to good continues throughout the day that follows but ends at last on a good note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The middle section is NSFW.

_She was writhing on the floor before him, chest heaving and flushed with desire, her blonde hair in a tattered array around her head. One tiny slim hand cupped a small, pale breast, kneading at it while the other was thrust between the soft looking golden curls between her legs._

_Cullen stared at her for longer than he should have before he wrenched himself away. Despite the withdrawal and the lack of food, he still felt drawn to her. Despite the smell of his brothers’ blood cloying in his nose and their broken bodies scattered around them, he could smell her over them - like wild flowers and lyrium with the stench of something rotten underneath. Despite the fact that he_ **_knew_ ** _her dead, had held her body in his arms, the sight of her like that still made it difficult to turn away as it made his cock hard._

_Clenching his eyes shut, he began to recite from Threnodies, starting with verse 6:18. “The righteous stood before the armies as a boulder stands before a tide: Unshaken, rooted there by the Maker's Hand.”_

_The..._ **_thing_ ** _...masquerading as Kath let out a breathy little sigh as soon as he spoke, immediately ceasing her vile ministrations and flopping onto the floor. “Boring,” she recited, as she always did. “I was hoping to get you this time, sweet thing.”_

_“Never,” he hissed, opening his eyes to glare at it before he continued in a louder tone, “And the demons soldiers broke upon their shields, as a wave breaks upon the shore.”_

_“Mmm,” hummed the demon as it rolled over, rising to all fours and crawling towards the bubble that was his prison. He stared into its inhuman eyes - Kath’s had been gray and soft as her heart...gray like Folke's almost. Abruptly the demon stiffened as soon as that thought went through his head (though part of him was confused as well, he knew no one named that). Then it smiled, the expression far too wide in Kath’s small face and purred excitedly._

_“Ooooooh, a new face.” It stroked the edge of the barrier as it went on, “Will this one break you, sweet thing? I so look forward to playing with you some more. I'll even let you see your brothers and sisters again if you give up...wouldn't that be nice?”_

_Cullen scowled and started to snap, “What are you…” but the words got suddenly caught in his throat. Because it was abruptly a different naked elf outside his bubble and this one made his heart plummet to his feet. He_ **_knew_ ** _her. He knew her face, her smile, knew the taste of her, knew how deeply she loved._

_Though he could not think of her name. She did not belong here though. Not here amongst the blood and death and pain of the Tower._

_“_ **_Vhen’an_ ** _,” it breathed and he just stared because it couldn't be her. It just_ **_couldn't_ ** _._

 _“No!” he snapped. This was not a thing he ever remembered happening before. It wasn't_ **_right_ ** _. She couldn't be…_

_This was not how this nightmare went!_

“ _No!_ ” Cullen screamed aloud as he clawed his way out of the Fade. He felt hot and heavy and there were _things_ wrapped around him.

_Maker, was he free of it or was he still there?_

Gasping for air, he frantically pushed himself away from whatever it was. His mind half acknowledged the confused noise that came in response but it was geared too much into flight to care or think about it. He _had_ to get away.

He had to get _out_.

Cullen felt the edge of the bed brush his back and rolled, landing in a crouch on a thick rug that splayed underneath the bed. His eyes flicked up, frantic and wild, and swept the room, looking for threats, for demons just waiting to pounce. Yet all he saw was a laden armor stand, filled bookshelves, a heavy desk, and the low burning coals of the fire.

 _Escape_.

_Flee._

The darkness shifted and he launched himself towards it with a snarl, expecting to feel flesh and bone under his fingers. To find a _foe_. Instead all he found was heavy fabric and cold glass beyond it. The balcony.

Jerking the curtain aside, he fumbled with the lock on the door for a moment before he burst out onto the balcony. There was frost beneath his bare feet, the stone cold and unforgiving as the mountains around them, but he didn't feel it. He was too hot, his entire body burning, blazing like a well-fed flame despite the fact that he wasn’t wearing a stitch.

Cullen stumbled forward and braced his hands on the balcony railing, breathing hard as he hunched his shoulders and tried to think. His mind felt muddled, like it had been wrenched out of his skull and shaken up before being tossed back in. So he closed his eyes and worked to concentrate.

 _Where?_ Not the Tower. Not Kirkwall. Frostbacks. _Skyhold._

 _When?_ 9:40...no, he...he was in _Haven_ at this time of year in 9:40. It had been... _a year_. A year since the Breach. 9:42.

 _Who?_ Cullen Stanton Rutherford. _Knight-Captain._ No! _Knight-Commander._ NO. Just _Commander_. Commander of the Inquisition. Meryell's…

_Meryell._

Cullen stood straight up with a sharp intake of breath, suddenly and abruptly back in the _now_.

The thing in his nightmares, the memory of the desire demon that had haunted him for _ten years_ , had become her. It had _stolen_ her form, plucked it as easily from his mind as breathing, and it had _become_ her. Was it a _true demon_? Hunting him in the Fade, following the scars on his soul that First Enchanter Irving had tried to gently explain were there so long ago, back when he wouldn't listen? Or was it…

“Aching anguish, bitter memories flowing into shiny new,” spoke a low voice from his right abruptly. “Tainting, tarnishing, twisting, which is the truth?”

Cullen spun to face the speaker, one hand lifted defensively despite his lack of a weapon, then he blinked several times at the figure sitting cross-legged on the balcony railing. “I...” he began uncertainly. “...Cole?”

The boy nodded and smiled shyly at him, straw colored hair falling over his face. “You remembered.” Then he rocked forward and said, “You fear there's something else inside you, stalking, slipping, sliding past your guard. But _she_ is your shield, bright as a beacon, and she will not let them pass. They are only greedy shadows, remnants of horrors past, unreal and breakable, fragile in the light she casts.”

He stared for a moment then breathed, “It isn't...it's just nightmares?”

“I kept them away, the girl with the demon’s eyes. Made them not touch and taint,” murmured the spirit. “You're stronger now, even as the little bottle makes you shake.”

Cullen flinched then blinked several times before saying, “I...that was you? I thought it was the lyrium.”

“It sings soft, small and subtle and serene. Not enough to quell the worst but enough to sate. Enough give in the chains to bend and break, to leave them behind like the brands. All molten, melted, made into something no longer meant to hurt.”

Shaking, he folded his arms around himself, half terrified by the boy. That he could pluck _that_ from his thoughts, that moment when he'd melted down the Kirkwall lyrium brands and had them recasted into Runes of Protection. And yet...Cole had admitted to keeping his nightmares away. Cullen had thought it was the lyrium at work again, that he would have to work _back_ through dealing with them.

He then frowned and asked, “The notes. Is that you too?”

Cole nodded then ducked his head, saying, “Words to remember in the dark when all seems lost. Little lights to remind of good things.”

“Not all of them were good.”

“Those are different, darker, dripping shame and rage, dragging down with claws and fangs and so much blue. Not to remember but to _remind_.”

Cullen scowled and snapped, “To remind me of what, _spirit_ ? The wrongs I've done? Those I've hurt? I _need_ no reminder of that!”

Cole just blinked at him with those wide blue eyes before shaking his head. “Not guilt,” he muttered. “To remember _why_. Why to fight and flail and feud, to make war against the past. All the reasons to not go back. To not fumble and fall.”

His breath caught in his throat and Cullen reached a suddenly shaking hand out to brace himself on the railing. “I…”

“Cold,” interrupted the boy before he could say anything and then he heard Meryell's surprised exclamation.

“Fucking shit cunt, Cullen, what are you _doing_ out there?” She was in the open doorway then, wrapped in only the woolen shawl that was usually carefully folded on top of the chest at the end of her bed. As she reached out towards him, he had a brief flickering remembrance of fear and looked at her eyes before anything else. They were blessedly green, no trace of the cruelty or impassiveness that tainted those of the demonic memory in his nightmares. Only ire and worry was there and he reached out to take her hand without hesitating further.

As soon as she pulled him into the room, Cullen realized that he was shivering. His teeth were chattering and he wrapped his arms around himself again, despite the fact that he still _felt_ warm.

“What were you _doing_ out there?” she hissed, rubbing her hands over his arms before she urged him towards the bed. “You're _freezing_. You know fucking better than to stand outside in the cold!”

“N-nightmare,” he managed to stammer out as he climbed back into the bed. The sheets were chilled now from the lack of both of their body heat and he lay there shivering as she continued moving around the room. He noticed her expression had softened as she came around her side of the bed, climbing up briefly to cup his face in her hands and kiss him.

“You should've woken me, _vhen’an_ ,” she murmured. Then she stroked his forehead and said softly, “Let me get the fire back going. You absolutely _can't_ get sick right before we go to Halamshiral. Josie will fucking _murder you_.”

Cullen managed to laugh hoarsely before he frowned, asking, “Was...was s-someone out there with me? I swear I was t-talking to someone...“

Meryell froze and breathed, “Cole,” and abruptly the boy was back, sitting on the floor behind her.

“Fear and fright,” intoned the boy softly as he rocked back and forth slightly, “old memories tangling with new to create fresh horrors. I came to help.”

She sank back onto the bed, one hand finding Cullen’s hair as she leaned back into him, and he heard her ask, “Did you?”

“I think so. He was already breaking free when I came.” Cole then smiled brightly as he said, “He knew you didn’t belong there, that _it_ could not wear your face even as he did not remember in the memory.”

“‘ _Ma serranas_ , Cole.”

“ _‘Ma neral_ ,” replied the boy before he disappeared, gone without a trace. Despite the shivering, Cullen wished a little that their scouts could be so skilled at vanishing.

At least this time when he went away, his memory of the spirit didn’t entirely go with him. It faded, like a half-forgotten dream, but he remembered him actually being there that time as well as the moment out on the balcony.

He would...Maker, he would have to thank the spirit. Boy. Both? Perhaps it was, in its own way, both.

Meryell continued sitting on the edge of the bed for a long moment, her expression distant as her hand idly ran through his hair, until Cullen breathed, “F-fire?” She then jerked and stammered an apology in Elven, bending to kiss his forehead (giving him a faceful of her breasts that he couldn’t entirely appreciate), before she bolted off of the bed. He curled deeper into the blankets as he laid there watching her, her legs and the curve of her ass on glorious display thanks to the length of the shawl, and cursed himself.

Instead of doing what he wanted and dragging her back into bed to kiss until the air grew heated between them and they brought their bodies together again to quench the ache inside them, he was shivering from a cold he couldn’t quite feel.

 _Fuck_ lyrium and what it did to him.

“There!” Meryell announced abruptly as she straightened from a last thrust into the fireplace with a poker. It blazed bright, casting light throughout the whole of the room, and made her tanned skin golden in the light. Maker, he was a fool.

She then hurried back towards him, shawl wrapped tightly around herself, and immediately burrowed underneath the blankets with him. Somehow she lost the shawl during that small crossover and was bare and _beautiful_ against him as she got her arms around his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest, with one leg tucked between his and the other curled over his hip to press her heel into his ass. Despite the shaking, he managed to get his arms around her and buried his face against her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her deeply before letting out a heavy sigh.

“I’m s-sorry,” he intoned quietly.

“Don’t,” she shushed as she scratched her nails across the back of his neck. “As soon as you said nightmare, I understood.”

He then felt her lips on his ear as she pressed a kiss into the soft spot below the lobe before she breathed, “Do you...do you want to talk about it?” Cullen frowned in immediately response, absently stroking his still shivering fingers across her back.

“I…”

Sighing, he shut his eyes and tried to burrow deeper into her shoulder, pressing his nose against her collarbone. Did he really want to let out the terrible things that had lingered in his mind for so long? To actually _speak_ the things he’d been forced to witness? To give voice to the horrors that felt like they haunted him even more now that he wasn’t on a constant lyrium ration?

To his surprise, the idea wasn’t as terrifying as it had once been. Not to her.

Licking his lips, Cullen softly said, “I-it was Kinloch. The d-demons...they masqueraded as K-Kath. They…” His voice was actually shaking now, not from the cold but from actually speaking about what had happened. There had never been a time that he’d actually _talked_ about what happened in anything but the vaguest of details. He choked suddenly before gasping, “Maker, th-they _wore_ her image like a mockery, sp-speaking in her voice, doing _things_ w-with her form that I-I…”

Her arms tightened around him and she kissed behind his ear again before leaving her lips there, warm and soft. A reminder that she was _there_ . That she was _real._

Letting out a harsh breath, he went on even as his teeth kept chattering slightly.

“It...I...the n-nightmares are often from then. Of _h-her_ being u-used by _them_.”

“Except this time?” whispered Meryell as her fingers traced nonsense patterns over the back of his neck. When he just nodded in response, his throat choking in remembrance of _her_ on the other side of that barrier, of the demon’s eyes pitch black and fathomless in her face, she let out a stream of Elven words that she hadn’t taught him the meaning of. By tone, however, he could take a guess at what they meant.

Cullen managed to breath, “It st-started that way. Then I-I…” He stiffened as he remembered the thought that had started it, reality breaking through the memory. “I thought of her e-eyes,” he went on. “How they were gray. L-like Folke’s. Then it ch-changed...it became _you._ ”

Somehow she managed to curl herself tighter around him while managing to separate them enough that she could grasp his face between her palms, cutting off his words. He blinked at her as she just looked at him for a long moment before she moved forward to press her lips against his. Cullen groaned into her mouth in response and tried to pull her closer, running his hands up and down her back.

Then Meryell pulled away, her eyes brimming with tears, as she breathed, “ _Ir abelas_ . I’m so sorry, _vhen’an_.”

“It’s n-not your fault what my head does,” he replied as he rested his forehead against hers. “I knew it was _wrong_.”

“Then why were you outside?”

“Enclosed spaces.”

“Oh,” she said softly. The pad of her thumb stroked over his cheek before she asked, “This...this is all right, though? Like this?”

Nodding slightly, Cullen replied, “I wouldn’t have you anywhere else, love.”

Meryell smiled and tilted her head to bring their mouths back in line, slanting them across each other in a series of languid kisses that made everything heavy and warm. Slowly he could feel the shivering leaving his limbs as he warmed up, bringing him back to the tired state he'd been left in after she'd dragged him out of his office and up to her room. Cullen certainly didn't feel up to a second round but that didn't stop him from running his hands all over her.

Right up until she let out a little yelp into his mouth and jerked back when he ran his hand over her hip.

“I...did I hurt you?”

Meryell shook her head in reply, snuggling back in close to him, bumping their noses together. “It's just bruises, _vhen’an_. They'll heal.”

Cullen frowned and gently smoothed his hand over her hip again, careful to only lightly touch. He knew he'd been holding on tight, gripping onto her because he'd been afraid if he didn't he might fly apart, but not _that_ bad. “I still hurt you,” he murmured.

She shook her head and smiled at him, looking so content that he didn't have it in him to argue with her. As her fingers idly stroked his face, she murmured, “It's a good hurt, Cullen. I promise.”

He managed a smile at that and recalled an Elven word she'd spoken, back when he'd been planning to make the trip to Therinfal and she'd been about to go to Redcliffe. “ _Dirtha’vhen’an?_ ” he asked.

“ _Dirtha’vhen’an_ ,” she replied softly.

Nodding, he closed his eyes and let out a breath, wanting to just let himself slip back down into the heavy languid sleep that was creeping over him again. Then he remembered his wild rush from bed and ran his hand up her side until he could cup her face, two fingers brushing the curve of her tapered ears.

“Sorry I ruined the night,” he murmured, already hearing his voice going heavy with sleep. “I wanted...our first together shouldn't have been like that.

Meryell's laugh was bright and then she kissed him, her hands leaving his face to rest against his chest as she pulled away a moment later. “It was _perfect_ ,” she insisted.

“But...the nightmare…”

“Is nothing new to sleeping with you,” Meryell insisted. “You know I have nightmares too.”

He sighed heavily and opened his eyes to look at her, brushing his thumb over her cheek. She had a small scar there, barely noticeable thanks to her skin tone. Shrugging one shoulder, Cullen said, “It seems I _should_ apologize though. I wanted...it should have been special.”

“It _was_ ,” she said. “You know I don't need frilly fancies or grand gestures. This is enough. _You_ are enough.”

Managing a smile, he asked, “Nightmares and all?”

“All of them.” She kissed him again then and somehow coiled herself closer, practically in his lap despite them laying on their sides. “Now sleep, love. I need you rested to stand with me in the morning.”

As his brow wrinkled in confusion, Meryell supplied, “I'm... I'm judging Camden before we leave. Best to get it over with before I fucking put it off entirely.”

“Right,” he murmured. Because they'd been planning for her to leave immediately from Halamshiral and head to the Exalted Plains. No matter what the result of the talks was, she was determined to put an end to the fighting that had plagued the area for too long. Not to mention dealing with the Freemen of the Dales. Nodding, Cullen kissed her back and swore, “I'll be there, _vhen’an_. Right at your side, no matter what he says or how you choose to deal with him. I'm yours.”

“Maker's swollen prick, you make a girl feel good about herself,” Meryell commented with a little laugh as her eyes started to drift shut.

Smiling, Cullen pulled her in close, shutting his own eyes as he breathed, “Anything for you, _vhen’an._ Anything for you.”

* * *

It was a shame that Camden’s judgement colored most of their morning. That didn't make it all bad but it certainly brought down the mood in general.

However...it did at least start fantastically.

Cullen woke hard and aching, as he had many nights after he'd gone to bed with Meryell on his mind and without her beside him. This time, however, she was there in his arms, still naked and he wrapped his arms around her. Somehow she'd turned herself around in the night so her bare back was pressed against his chest and he couldn't complain.

It made it all the easier for him to palm his hands over her breasts to begin his attempts to coax her awake.

He began with that, touching and kneading, gently rolling her nipples between his fingers. As he began kissing the back of her neck, he slowly began to rock his hips against her, his cock sliding along the cleft of her ass. She began to shift against him at first then moan, her head twisting back and forth, and he was _entranced._

He didn't think he'd ever have enough of watching her reactions, all those subtle twitches of her ears giving away her responses more than anything.

When he felt her hips shift against his, grinding down as he rocked into her, Cullen groaned and nipped her shoulder. “ _Vhen’an_ ,” he moaned and she let out a strangled laugh.

Turning half around in his arms, Meryell wrapped an arm around his head and kissed him before saying softly, “That's a _good morning_ I could get fucking used to.”

He laughed and managed to say, “Every morning. If you want it, I will do it.”

“But then how will I surprise you?” she asked even as she gasped as he kept one hand at her breast and slid the other down her body. She bowed like a bow as he delved into the already damp curls between her legs and crooked two fingers inside her.

“Get up earlier,” purred Cullen before he kissed her hard, swallowing the sounds she made as he thrust his fingers rhythmically in and out of her sex. Her hand clawed at the back of his head before she fisted it into his curls, tugging hard.

Growling, he fought her for dominance over their mouths for a moment before wrenching his head back, breathing hard as he looked down at her. She was _beautiful_ in the dim daylight of the room, lying in his arms with her lips swollen, her eyes bright, and her chest heaving with each little noise she was making. The noises _he_ was drawing out of her.

_Maker. I do not deserve this woman._

“How long do we have before a servant comes knocking on the door?” he asked, leaning forward to bump his nose against hers.

“They don't come unless... _Cullen!_ ” Meryell cut herself off as she gasped his name when he bent his thumb to use on the little knot at the head of her sex. Her glare immediately after was _so_ worth it.

“You _shit_ ,” she gasped. “You utter fucking _shit_.”

Chuckling, he kissed her before breathing, “Do you want me to stop?”

“I will _hate you_ if you stop!” cried Meryell in reply, her voice rising from a normal level to a glorious _shriek_ as she spoke. Even with as high as they were in the tower, there was probably someone that could hear her but he didn't care. Fuck decency. Fuck propriety.

He had one job right now in his consideration and that was pleasing the woman beside him. So she would have something _good_ today as she faced her former lover. And to make up for waking her up with his nightmares.

Growling, Cullen removed his hand and ignored her petulant whine in response. He rolled her onto her back as he rose above her, letting the blankets fall away as he spread her legs with his own. He lifted her left leg to the height of his hip and leaned in, his breath catching slightly. Taking his cock in his own hand, he ran it along her sex and shuddered from the sensation even as he watched her writhe.

“Yes?” he asked breathlessly as he resisted the urge to just thrust into her.

“ _Yes_ ,” gasped Meryell as she arched her back, trying to raise her hips higher. She braced her right leg against the bed as she clawed at the sheets underneath her. “Bloody fucking Maker and his flaming Bride, Cullen, _vhen’an, please_!”

He didn't hesitate a second, sinking into her with a groan that she echoed. When he had no more need to brace with his hand, he let it fall to her other leg and brought it up to the same level as the other. The angle let him sink deeper into her and Meryell _howled_ , bucking her hips up and into his. Cullen snarled in response and met her thrust for thrust, every thought descending down to but one.

 _Her_.

He felt the peak coming far sooner than he'd expected and looked down to find her still rocking up into him, her face a mask of passion. But she wasn't _there_ yet.

She deserved to get there first.

Releasing one of her legs, Cullen laid a hand across her quivering belly and managed to delve into her damp curls for a second time. Meryell whined, begging in Elven in a reedy tone, as he brushed his thumb over the swollen knot hidden by those hairs. One, two, three circles with his thumb and she was screaming his name, her body arching upward as her muscles clenched around him.

That was the last he could stand and he came with a shout that had him seeing _stars_ and clutching at her bruised hips just to hang on to reality. His cock was already softening, sensitive and twitching from sensation, when he had enough thought to pull out and collapse beside her.

As he pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her temple, Meryell laughed and lifted her hands to clasp the arm he wrapped around her. “You're going to do _that_ to me every damned morning?”

“Every one I can get away with it,” replied Cullen with a tired laugh.

“Fuck, Varric was wrong. I'm not going to break you, you're going to break _me_.”

“I _did_ say I was no saint.”

She laughed again and nodded, saying, “So you did, _vhen’an_ , so you did.” Then she relaxed against him and he let himself doze off as his body came down from the high, further coaxed there by the presence of her at his side.

When he came to what seemed only moments later, he blinked his eyes open as he realized the space beside him was empty. Sitting up, Cullen braced himself up on his elbows to look around the room and found Meryell sitting at the small table that sat in front of one of the balcony windows. She was reading from a book carefully propped on her leg, clad only in her smallclothes and her mother's shawl. There was a tray on the table next to her and his stomach growled as he saw it was piled with fruit and what looked like some of the Orlesian breakfast pastries (which he'd formed a terrible fondness for lately).

The noise made her look up and she _beamed_ at him before she rose to her feet. “Good morning,” purred Meryell as she closed the book and set it aside on the table. She swiftly crossed the room and climbed up next to him, practically tackling him back down to the bed so she could kiss him soundly.

Cullen moaned into her mouth for a moment before he brought his hands up to frame her face. Pushing her back, he said, “Good morning. _On..._ shit.”

“ _Dhea_ ,” she supplied with a smile.

“ _On dhea_ ,” he repeated. Saying greetings and other simple things was one of his practices for speaking Elven. Thus he usually tried to say them to her as well as Folke on the rare occasion (more common now that he saw the mage more). Then he craned his neck slightly and asked, “Breakfast?”

“Hmm? _Oh_ , yes. I threw on that ridiculous fucking robe that Josie found me from somewhere - I think it's Antivan - this morning and walked down to kitchens.”

Cullen blinked before asking, “In just...in just your _robe_?”

“I was wearing things _under it_. Not much but enough.”

“ _Maker’s breath_.” The thought of her wandering around the whole keep in a robe with nothing but her smallclothes on underneath it was...oddly exciting. Though he knew that she’d walk out in just her smallclothes alone if it was just the Fangs around, or even the Chargers.

Meryell laughed and said, “It was early enough that no one else was up except the staff. They've actually gotten used to me popping in at odd hours. And Doris loves me.”

Snorting at the mention of the head cook, who was notorious around Skyhold for her bad temper and tendency to not like _anyone_ , Cullen commented, “You're the only person in the Inquisition that she loves.”

She just smiled at that and grabbed his hand, saying, “Come have breakfast, _vhen’an_.”

“Breakfast naked with you?” he said with a laugh as he pushed the covers down and rose to follow her. “However can I say no?”

“Well I certainly hope you don’t fucking say no. I got too much food for me to eat on my own.”

Cullen smiled and pulled her close for a kiss in the middle of the room, revelling in the feel of her bare skin against his own. If only they could stay in this moment, where the echoes of their lovemaking this morning and the night before still lingered. Where his head didn’t currently ache and the shakes from withdrawal weren’t plaguing him at the moment.

Yet, like his nightmare breaking the happy moments this morning, it just wasn’t a thing to be.

* * *

In her time of serving as Inquisitor, Cullen had only been witness to Meryell sitting in judgement on three instances.

The first had been facing Gereon Alexius again after she’d returned from the Fallow Mire. He’d fully expected her to execute the man outright merely on how she’d described reacting to his own death in the aborted future. Then she’d surprised the lot of them by saying that she knew how it felt to want to do anything for those she loved and condemned him to serving as a researcher for the Inquisition.

Her later stipulation to Leliana to either get the man out of Skyhold to do his work or keep him damn well hidden wasn’t surprising. Nor was learning that a small part of the reason she’d spared the man his death was talking about him with Dorian, who had revealed that he still believed his former mentor could do some good with his knowledge.

The second had been the Avvar Chieftan Movran the Under, who’d marched up to Skyhold a good two weeks after the mission in the Fallow Mire right before Hawke had shown up. They’d all been more amused than anything by the man’s pronouncement of why he was there (particularly after he’d announced his son, the former self-proclaimed Hand of Korth, as an idiot) and she’d briefly recessed to speak with Rhiryd on what to do.

He still sometimes had to go find the man in order to translate the tattered looking letters he received about their progress - if he could call it that - on the border of Tevinter. It was, however, more often amusing than anything else.

The third, which had been merely days after she’d returned from the Storm Coast, had been perhaps the worst.

If Cullen had thought Meryell was going to outright execute Alexius, he had been rather convinced that she had been going to condemn the former Mayor of Crestwood to the most heinous thing she could conceive of. After his withdrawal symptoms had abated a little one day, she’d told him of what had happened in Crestwood before she’d received Folke’s letter and she had _cried_ . Cried like her heart was fit to break in his shaking arms because she _knew_ what those people had felt, how it felt to be abandoned. And, quite honestly, Cullen - as someone who’d also been as good as abandoned once in his life - couldn’t think of very many good reasons to stop her.

Except that he didn’t want her to do something she regretted. Execute the man for his crimes, yes, but he’d feared for a moment that she would attempt to take some sort of revenge for the dead herself.

When she’d given the man a clean death, he’d released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. She’d still been broken up about it that night as he’d held her but it had been more about the relief of it being over than anything else.

Now Cullen stood on the left-hand side of the throne with one hand on the hilt of his sword, Josephine his opposite on the right-hand side, and watched as Gustav and Laurence escorted Camden to stand before her. He dared a glance at Meryell out of the corner of his eye to see how she was doing and wanted to frown at the flat expression on her face.

She’d explained that she was probably going to have to maintain her distance in order to actually sentence the man, purely on the fact that it still felt like a betrayal of the Fangs even if he’d been decommissioned.

Camden himself was wearing simple-made garb and, despite the frazzled looking state of his thinning hair, looked as if he’d been treated well. Someone had even fixed his nose from where Folke had broken it. It did look decidedly like it hadn’t quite gone back into the position it had been in before the breaking, however.

Josephine straightened up as the two soldiers and prisoner came to a halt and called out, “Inquisitor, before you is Camden Bowfort, formerly a member of the Fangs of Vimmark company. He was sworn to serve the Inquisition in all means so long as the company’s contract held when they agreed to come under service with us.” She then gestured to her right, where Arnald stood in the Orlesian style of parade rest with his hands clasped before him, dressed in his well-worn chainmail with a tabard snuggly belted over it bearing the Fangs’ arms and an Inquisition badge pinned to his shoulder. “I have Captain Arnald Seraine of the Fangs here as well to bear witness to Bowfort’s service as well as the company’s agreement with the Inquisition.”

Cullen gritted his teeth behind his lips because this felt like nothing but politics. Practically everyone currently in Skyhold knew what had happened between Meryell and Camden either by being there themselves or through word of mouth. Even a few of the newcomer’s knew grand amounts of details judging by the things he had been hearing over the past few days from his soldiers and runners (all terrible gossips).

Nodding, Meryell gestured with one hand for Josephine to continue and the Antivan dipped into a brief curtsey before she turned to look at the man.

“He has been accused of attempting to commit harm upon the Inquisitor through both physical and verbal means.”

“Fucking _liar_ ,” snarled Camden, immediately earning a cuff on the back of his neck by Gustav.

Laurence made a disgusted noise before saying, “Sorry, Inquisitor. He’s been a rotten lot since he got himself tossed into the cells.”

Cullen saw Meryell shake her head out of the corner of his eye before she said, “It’s nothing for you to fucking apologize for, soldier.” He watched Josephine wince at her curse and fought to hide a smile. Their ambassador could try as much as she liked to make their Inquisitor more palatable to Thedas at large but Meryell was always going to be the foul-mouthed alienage brat she proclaimed herself to be. “I’m ten years acquainted with his attitude and behavior. Believe me, I know damned well that he’s a rotten person.”

Camden sneered and started to open his mouth and Cullen _knew_ it was going to be something foul. He flashed the hand hanging at his side in a quick slash and Laurence slapped a gauntleted hand over the man’s mouth.

“That’s enough out of you, laddie,” she growled under her breath, her Starkhaven accent thickening with ire. “If y’can’t speak nicely, you shouldn’t speak at all.”

There was a snort from somewhere in the crowd and then he saw Meryell make a gesture.

“No, no, let him speak, Laurence.” She leaned forward, her hands gripping tightly to the arms of the chair, and bared her teeth in a smile that was as forbidding as it was menacing. “I’d rather him say whatever bit of shit he’s got behind his teeth rather than keep it in.”

Laurence glanced at him before she followed that order and Cullen narrowed his eyes, the only answer that he was going to make. She slowly released her hand and Camden let out a hollow laugh, spitting onto the floor before she was entirely out of the way. He flashed a crooked grin before he jerked his chin towards Meryell, saying, “Look at you there, little rabbit. All high and mighty and _proud_ . You know they just elevated you because they needed that shit on your fucking hand, right? Y’ain’t worth shit to them. _Knife-ears_ are just trash.”

Reflexively his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword and Cullen ground his teeth together behind his lips. Then he heard Meryell laugh, high and mocking, and nearly swung around to stare at her.

She then rose from the chair, stepping forward with her chin held high and _contempt_ in her green eyes. Her hips rolled, making her strides into more of a stalk than anything else as she moved to stand at the top of the stairs that led down to where Camden stood. It took a moment for him to place the motion but when he did it brought to mind Folke’s nickname for her.

He’d seen one or two great cats in the wild in his life and they moved like that. All grace and _power_ with a sense of menace that was palpable.

Meryell gestured towards Josephine, saying, “Our ambassador has a collection of letters and details of deeds that I did that say otherwise, Camden. And they all had very good explanations for why they fucking named me Inquisitor and it _wasn’t_ because of this shit on my hand.”

“And _look at you_ ,” she went on dismissively. “The only way that you can win anything Camden is to attempt to bring down someone else. You made me feel like _shit_ once upon a time...but I’m no longer that girl.”

“You think you’re better than me?” snarled Camden, leaning forward slightly. He then turned to stare right at Cullen with a disturbing smile stretching his mouth. “You went truly low this time, Merry. Former templar? You think he wouldn’t lock your precious daddy up in a heartbeat? Or kill ‘em if he didn’t toe the line?”

Cullen stared right back at the man, daring him to break eye contact first. He knew his own faults, his own downsides, and he had many things that haunted him. Things that would likely haunt him until the end of his days. He, however, was the one that Meryell had chosen despite the difficulties they had. And even with his faults, he was a far better man than Camden would ever be.

“He’s not a templar,” he heard her say firmly. “You, however, _are_ an asshole.”

Meryell then sighed and said, “But I’m not going to punish you for being who you are. I won’t be you.”

Camden tore his gaze away from Cullen’s then so he could snarl, “You sure as shitting can’t be me, Merry! I’m far better than some jumped up knife-ear!”

“You can continue telling yourself that all you like, _i’tel’gon’lan_ ,” she intoned firmly, “but I think you’ve given plenty of examples of the fucking contrary.” Cullen turned to look at her then, standing tall and proud, and couldn’t help but smile. She was facing this far better than he could have hoped, though he fully expected her to react at least a little badly later.

After a moment Meryell took a deep breath before she went on in a slightly shaking voice, “You were a Fang and you were Inquisition, Camden. Not only did you betray our company by doing so but you betrayed the very organization we were hired by. You betrayed the very few fucking rules we have. You betrayed the damned _Captain_.”

“ _Bitch Captain_ ,” snarled Camden, which brought gasps from the nobles at the front of the hall and outraged yells from the back where the Fangs stood. “Bending his knee to a rabbit like _you_ . Bet _he_ licks your...”

“Shut your hole, traitorous shit!” shouted Astrid over Camden, the tall Anders woman distinctive above the heads of several others. Thankfully her voice cut off entirely whatever distasteful thing he’d been about to utter.

“Pitch ‘em, Meryell!” shouted another voice that he didn’t recognize.

Another that he knew was Demut snarled from somewhere, “Cut off the little pissants balls!”

“Not like he ever used ‘em right!”

Camden’s face was blood red now, though he didn’t know whether it was anger or embarrassment or a mix of both. He started to open his mouth then Meryell stuck two fingers into her own mouth and let out a sharp whistle that rang off the walls of the hall, bringing the shouting to a staggering silence.

“ _Enough!_ ” she snapped, glaring at the back of the hall where the company stood. “ _Enough_ , brothers and sisters.” She stood there clenching and unclenching her fists for a moment before she said with a growl, “We haven’t killed or permanently maimed a company member for sins against us in...how long, Captain?”

Arnald stood up a little straighter when he was addressed and replied, “Twenty years or so, Inquisitor. Not since I was voted Captain.”

“ _Twenty. Years_ ,” Meryell called out loudly. “I will _not_ be the fucking first to break that trend.”

“Then what’s to become of me, Your Worship?” sneered Camden. “Am I to lick your boots? Or are you wanting something...else?” He licked his lips suggestively as he said it and Cullen couldn’t help the _growl_ he let out in response. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Josephine shake her head in warning and, Maker, he wanted to ignore it.

Meryell had never asked him to be her champion or protector, however.

She could protect herself just fine.

“You,” he heard her say in a cold voice, “are to take anything you actually own and leave. You take nothing with the company marks nor the Inquisition. You make no claim to ever having been involved with us.”

Meryell took a step downward towards Camden as she continued, “You will avoid land that the Inquisition protects or claims as its own. Our scouts and soldiers will know your face and they have orders to take drastic measures if you approach them unless in peril of _death it-fucking-self_. The Nightingale has promised me that she’ll see it done and she keeps her promises.”

Cullen arched his eyebrows at that news and glanced over to where Leliana leaned against a wall, her face half-hidden by her hood. She noticed his attention, however, and quirked a smile before she nodded slightly to confirm

“You will not bring harm upon the Fangs or the Inquisition in any way,” Meryell went on, her voice dropping several octaves as she went down another step. “If you do, we will consider your life forfeit.”

Camden laughed harshly. “And _then_ you kill me? How _gracious_ , Your Worship.”

“Kill you? No, Camden, no one is going to touch you at my order. You get to _live_.”

That made the man blink several times and he asked, “What?”

As Meryell reached the lower part of the floor, she took another set of stalking steps forward until she was almost within arms reach of Camden. Cullen wanted to move forward, to drag her away from the man who’d already tried once to do her harm, but he held himself back. He trusted Laurence and Gustav to keep him in line.

Instead he merely tightened his grip on his sword, gritted his teeth, and forced himself to stop leaning forward like he was about to leap across the space between them.

“If you go against any of these things,” said Meryell, her voice a dangerous purr now, “I have already put in place what will happen. Your name will be added to the dead roll by the Captain and he will send his condolences to your mother in Denerim. He already has them drafted. The ambassador will do the same for the Inquisition. We will kill you, Camden, with words alone. And we will make sure that you _stay_ dead.”

“You wouldn’t,” breathed the man, his voice oddly loud in the hall.

There was silence for a moment until Meryell hissed, “Look into my fucking eyes and tell me that again. Tell me that I won’t do everything within my power to protect my family. You know plenty about me to know I’m not lying. _So tell me I won’t shitting do it._ ”

For a long moment there was no noise except the sound of breathing and the restless shuffle of cloth and leather in the hall. Then Camden bowed his head and mumbled, “Fine.”

Nodding, she turned away from the man and Cullen breathed a sigh of relief, relaxing with every inch that she put between them. Once she was back up the stairs, Meryell turned and said softly with a bitter smile, “I sentence you to exile, Camden Bowfort. May whatever gods you might follow have mercy on you.” She then gestured to Laurence and Gustav, who both nodded before they began escorting Camden from the hall.

The man looked...broken.

“Is that all for the day, Josephine?” asked Meryell, sounding suddenly weary. Cullen turned to look at her and saw that she was standing with her back to the hall, her head slightly bowed as she stared at the Inquisitor’s chair. He wanted to reach out to her, to drag her into his arms and tell her that everything would be fine. He wished he could protect her from having to make these decisions that weighed so heavily on her.

Yet he couldn’t.

 _She_ was the Inquisitor and he could not shield her from the decisions that that position required her to make. However, as her...Maker, what were they now? Lovers? What exactly was the sort of term one used for something like this? Whatever the term, it didn’t matter.

He could give her his shoulder to lean on when times were tough.

He would continue to be her support as she had been his.

“Yes, Inquisitor,” replied the ambassador softly. “Though we have a meeting this afternoon in the war room to discuss our plans for leaving for Halamshiral.”

“I’ll be there,” Meryell murmured. “Until then, I’ll be in my room.”

Josephine nodded then stepped forward, seeming like she wanted to reach out to touch the elf’s arm in a comforting gesture before she stopped herself. Instead she just smiled and said, “Of course, Inquisitor. Take what time you need.”

She nodded back and then those green eyes were locked with his and Cullen was pulled inexorably forward. He had no qualms at reaching out to touch her arm - though he kept it high, chaste enough for such a public venue - and bent his head to asked, “Do you want me to come up with you?”

“You need to work,” mumbled Meryell. “I kept you away from it for most of the morning.”

Cullen frowned and said, “Last night you were trying to keep me _away_ from work, dear thief.”

“Because you were fucking overworking yourself.”

Sighing, he lifted his other hand to press to fingers underneath her chin, bringing her face around to face him since she kept her eyes forward towards the damned chair. She blinked up at him and he could see tears lurking at the edge of her eyes as he asked roughly, “Do _you_ need me, _vhen’an_? Work can damned well wait.”

“Your...meeting with Gil?”

“Not until the day after tomorrow.” Which she knew. She knew the schedule that Gil was keeping him on to receive ever lessening doses of lyrium as well as he did. Frowning, he asked, “Are you trying to keep me away?”

Meryell frowned and shook her head, closing her eyes as she replied, “I don’t know. Fuck, _fuck_ , I don’t know, Cullen. I’m...I’m not…” Her voice trailed off as she lifted a hand to touch her forehead and breathed, “I don’t know anymore.”

Sighing, he said, “That’s it. Not more asking, I _am_ coming up with you and we’re going now.”

“But…”

“Maker’s breath, woman, _stop arguing_ and let me take care of you.”

That made her fall silent and Cullen flashed a worried glance at Josephine before he steered Meryell towards the door that led to her quarters. He exchanged a brief nod with the two fresh guards who were there (the third shift of that particular set, he knew, since they had four pairs who alternated through the position) then steered Meryell upward. She walked almost automatically, like she had gone numb, and he grew more worried the higher they climbed.

When she fumbled for her key, cursing under her breath, Cullen stopped her frantic motions and dug it out of a similar pocket to what she’d pulled it out of the night before. “Shh, love,” he murmured before unlocking the door to let them in. As soon as he locked it behind them and slipped the key back into her pocket, he swept her up into his arms without another word.

“Cullen!” she exclaimed, clinging to his shoulders and mantle.

“Hush,” he chided as he strode up the short stairwell with her in his arms and planted her on the edge of the bed. Dropping to one knee, he swiftly went to work on divesting her of her boots before turning his attention to her waist. The belt and dagger she kept there came away just as easily and he laid them carefully down on the edge of the rug.

Cullen tugged the end of her long shirt out from where she’d tucked it into her trousers and reached up without a single blush to pluck at the knots of her breastband. Meryell blinked at him several times before she stammered his name, which made him smile. Lifting himself up slightly, he kissed her softly and said, “Nothing sexual, _vhen’an_. Just...lay down. You’ll see.”

She frowned at him as he freed her from the cloth but did as he said, stretching out across the bed with one arm propped underneath her head. Nodding, he smiled and trailed his hand over her hip before he stood, striding over to the couch that stood next to the railing between the floor and the stairwell. As quickly and precisely as he could, he stripped himself of the armor he’d only put on a few hours before when he’d finally left her room just before lunch was to begin. When he was finally in just his shirt, trousers, and slightly threadbare socks, Cullen turned back towards the bed to find Meryell watching him with a little smile on her face.

Smiling, he tilted his head to the side and asked, “Like what you see, love?”

“I’d like it better naked,” she replied, “but I’ll take you any sodding way I can get.”

“Perhaps tonight you can get your wish on the former,” he purred before wondering where _that_ bit of daring had come from. He’d never been overt in his attention towards the fairer sex before and he’d never said anything of the like to Claudia, the widow that Rylen had convinced him to see. Not even when she’d asked.

Meryell brought out things in him that he’d forgotten or hadn't even known that he could be. Which apparently included confidence in things in the bedroom.

“Is that a promise?” she asked, batting her eyelashes at him a little.

“We’ll see,” he said as he crossed the room. He climbed over her to collapse onto the other side of the bed and promptly pulled her flush against him. She immediately slid an arm over his waist and slipped her legs between his, twining them together even as she buried her nose into his shirt. When he pressed a kiss to her forehead, Meryell shuddered and let out a soft sob.

“I threatened him,” she breathed and he nodded slightly.

“What other choice did you have, _vhen’an_ ? He…” Cullen growled as he briefly tightened his grip around her. “The things he _called you_. Maker, if you didn’t need to handle him yourself because of what he’d done, I’d…”

She shook her head at that. “He’s mine to deal with. My past. My...fuck, my _regret_.”

Bringing his hand up to cup her cheek, Cullen ducked his head as he gently pressed her face upwards to he could kiss her softly. “You don’t have to do everything on your own anymore,” he breathed. “I know I can’t protect you from the choices you have to make or shield you from them. I _can_ be your shoulder though them. If you let me.”

Meryell hitched a breath then said, “I won’t ask you to do that. Particularly not with some peice of shit like him.”

“ _You’re_ not asking. _I’m_ offering.” Shaking his head, he pressed his lips to hers again, this time drawing the kiss out as he hugged her body to his. He wished he could tell everything through that kiss alone. That he didn’t care _what_ it was, he would help her. He would do anything for her. Things like that couldn’t be told with merely a kiss, however, so he pulled away and gently stroked her hair. “You’ve done so much for me. Let me do this for you, love. I can take a little.”

“You…the lyrium…”

“No, this is about you,” he interrupted. “Meryell, _please_. Think on it. You already asked me to stand with you to face him. Let me help you face the aftermath.”

She blinked up at him several times before she let out a laugh, reaching up to touch his face. “You’re too damned good for me,” she breathed as her fingers stroked his cheek.

“Beg to differ.”

“Call it a draw?”

“Draw,” he agreed with a laugh. Then he nuzzled his nose against hers and said, “You don’t...you don’t have to answer now, love. Just lay here with me. Just us. No Inquisition, no Fangs, no Camden.”

“Just us,” Meryell whispered. “I’d...I think I’d like that.”

Cullen smiled and kissed her forehead again, softly saying, “Then close your eyes and just lay here with me. Just us, for what time we have before the meeting.”

She only made a faint humming noise in return and he looked down to see her eyes closed, her face already burrowed into the pillow. Smiling, he leaned forward to rest his head against hers, nuzzling his nose briefly against her hair before he settled and closed his eyes.

Slowly but surely, the feel of her body against his pulled him down into a light doze and he let his mind drift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven/Elvhen Translations:**
> 
> ‘Ma serranas > thank you  
> ‘Ma neral > you’re welcome  
> I'tel'gon'lan > worthless person


	43. “Fucking shit ass, rotten cocked, shitbag. Not get it right my damned foot.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trip to Halamshiral begins and travel shenanigans (and pain) ensue.

The long ride from Skyhold to Halamshiral felt like it took significantly longer than it actually had. That probably hadn’t been helped by the fact that, since it was Harvestmere, the Frostbacks were already seeing heavier snows. Though the environment they were travelling through was by far the _least_ thing that made the whole trip feel longer.

They had made the decision during their planning to travel as if they were simply a group of Inquisition forces and not the Inquisitor and all of her advisors and main support - because _that_ would have just been stupid. Which meant that, for the most part, everyone was dressed similar to the general population of their forces and not with their usual flair. Leliana, Sera, Varric, and Cole had all donned the garb of scouts, which also allowed the Nightingale to keep an eye on everyone as she liked. Cullen, Cassandra, and Blackwall were both in plain armor amongst the general soldiery. Bull was, well, _Bull_ and quite obvious as he was currently the only qunari, so he remained himself amongst the whole of the Chargers that were accompanying them. Solas, Dorian, and Vivienne disappeared into the ranks of the mages, dressing to match their counterparts. Josephine, dressed down in a simple dress and cloak, had been going to just disappear wherever she could but Meryell had swiftly paired the ambassador with Sister Cecilia, Tyrrania, and Felie. It not only kept her well occupied with conversation, it also provided her with two possible protectors she wouldn’t have had if she’d just disappeared into the general contingent.

And Meryell had done what she’d wanted to do for _ages_ and just disappeared back into the ranks of the Fangs.

They still moved around the group as they travelled, exchanging news and conversations up and down the lines. That, of course, was where the annoying part came in.

The annoyance, of course, had a name.

 _Vivienne_.

“Slouching like that will only hurt you later on, my dear.”

Meryell rolled her eyes as she ignored the snickers from behind her, knowing that they were more aimed at the woman riding beside her than at herself. She then purposely slouched lower in the saddle of her Forder Elvar, who was sedately plodding along behind the rest of the horses, and said, “Not like I’m fucking looking to impress right now.”

The mage sniffed delicately before saying, “One should _always_ look to impress, Inquisitor. Perhaps you should think of it as practice for dealing with Halamshiral.”

By the Maker’s left nut, she was going to _strangle_ this damned woman before this trip was done. Why had they gone out of their way to Val Royeaux to recruit her again? Oh, right, because she _was_ so fucking Orlesian and knew the court from once being the Empress’ Enchanter and played the Game incredibly well.

She'd just have to settle for proving her wrong at the Winter Palace.

“Well,” drawled Meryell, “it’s not like the tits at Halamshiral are going to even see me sitting a horse, so don’t see why it’d be a damned issue in the first place. Only ones who’re going to see are Gaspard’s lot when we arrive at...fuck, whatever the name of his shitting house is.”

“Manor,” piped Vivienne sternly. “I believe he calls it _The Lion’s Den_.”

“How fucking apt,” she grumbled in reply. Then Meryell had a thought and chuckled darkly as she added, “Though it’s not like we don’t have lions of our own.”

Her own Elven pet name from Folke came to mind first, not to mention the fact that _someone_ had gotten it in their head apparently to start calling Cullen by the name the Lion of Skyhold. If she had to guess, the helmet that was now an almost constant fixture in his office and the furry mantle on his coat (which _did_ quite resemble a mane) were part of the reason why that had come about.

That and he had a way of _staring_ sometimes, like he was looking right through and into and seeing all that made up a person. It was that assessing look he got when he was looking for answers or judging a sword of being worthy. Probably helped as well that his eyes were the color they were. Meryell had had that look turned on her a time or two lately but that was...mmm, well...that was an _entirely_ different litter of mabari.

Feeling her cheeks starting to flush at just the thought of the last time she’d had that particular stare focused on her before they'd left Skyhold, she coughed before tacking on, “Not that we _need_ to particularly fear Gaspard.”

She could see Vivienne arch an eyebrow delicately out of the corner of her eye right before the Enchanter commented, “One should always fear even the lamest of lions, darling. After all, it only takes one wrong move for him to pin you under his paw.”

Meryell just grinned viciously at the woman before she replied, “That’s why you don’t beard the lion in his den. You draw him out. Weaken him from cover. Take him out from a distance.”

“You have hunted lions before?”

The mage sounded more than a little surprised and that made her smile.

“Got hired to take out a group of ‘em that was pestering some Orlesian lordling’s farmers six years back. Leader was this big old _shit_ of a lion; mean thing with a dark mane and a skin full of scars. Red lions, to be specific, that crossed down into Orlais from their normal hunting grounds in the Frostbacks.”

“Oooh!” piped up Astrid abruptly from nearby. “Is that the _lion story_ I hear?”

“I think it is!” commented Tyrrania cheerfully from where she rode nearby as well, smiling as Josephine leaned over to whisper _What’s the lion story?_ to an equally confused Felie while Sister Cecilia just turned her face towards the sky.

“The _lion story_ ?!” came Pod’s shout from further back down the line, as the Fangs archers were scattered throughout the group as well as the rest of the Inquisition line. “ _Asa’ma’lin_ , you are not telling the lion story without _me_ , are you?”

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” muttered Meryell before she turned in the saddle to shout back, “Yes, it’s the fucking _lion story_ , you sorry shits! And you were _there_ , Pod!”

“That’s why I _have_ to be involved!” he called back. “Otherwise you won’t get it right!”

 _Won’t get it....why that_ **_shit_ **.

Growling wordlessly, Meryell turned back around in the saddle before snarling under her breath, “Fucking shit ass, rotten cocked, shitbag. Not get it right my damned foot.”

Vivienne merely took all of the interaction in with several slow blinks and both her eyebrows arched. Then she gave a prim smile and commented dryly, “Your company is ever so...charming...my dear.”

Of course, _her_ version of charming meant that they were uncultured heathens who shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near polite society. Which was exactly how Meryell liked her company.

So she just turned to grin at the woman and say, “Wouldn’t have the shits any other way.”

“Mmm, yes, I can see that.”

There was some kind of judgement in that tone and a silent implication that she _shouldn't_ be proud of them. That they weren't worthy of her. She wasn't about to get proud and all high and mighty just because she'd been named Inquisitor. Not only because she wasn't any better than anyone else but because it wouldn't linger when she was eventually able to step down. People would forget that an elf saved them and she'd just become another knife-ear again.

She could maybe start things changing to make that view shift while she was Inquisitor but it wouldn't change in her lifetime. She'd experienced enough racism against her in her twenty and seven years to know that much.

Lifting her chin high, Meryell said sharply, “You may dislike them for their _uncouth_ behavior, Madame, but I'll remind you that they're my family. And the company gets the job done when they're given one to do.”

“I will endeavor to remember that, darling,” commented Vivienne. She then inclined her head as she went on, “If you'll excuse me, Inquisitor.”

“Don't need to ask my permission.”

“Politeness, my dear. It would perhaps endeavor you to learn it.”

The Enchanter pulled her mount away then, weaving forward through the lines, and Meryell glared daggers at her back. Gritting her teeth, she let out a low growl before spitting, “What a fucking bitch.”

“Pff, leave her!” snapped Astrid as she swung her mount over. The big Anders woman whipped out a fist to punch Meryell lightly in the shoulder (lightly for Astrid anyway, it still nearly pitched her out of the saddle) and laughed. “She just one of those haughty magic types. Not to mention normal for an Orlesian noble.”

“ _Excusez-moi!_ ” exclaimed Felie, the former templar looking highly offended.

Tyrrania immediately reached out to touch Felie’s shoulder and said gently, “You are an exception to the rule.” She then tilted her head slightly towards Josephine, who was riding with pursed lips and staring at Vivienne’s retreating back. “Lady Josephine?”

The ambassador startled for a moment before resettling at a quick touch from Sister Cecilia. She then frowned and asked, “Does she always speak to you like that, Inquisitor?”

Meryell just shrugged and replied, “Mostly. Usual snide comments just barely hidden under politeness that I get from most Orlesians.” She then smiled and tipped her head towards Felie. “Minus _our_ Orlesians, who are much more civilized people.”

Josephine smiled then asked, “Does that include our spymaster? You both still seem to disagree quite a lot.”

“Leliana,” Meryell intoned firmly, “doesn't make snide comments to my face. And we...hmm...understand each other a bit better now. Never be fucking friends but we're no longer trying to actively verbally stab the other in the back.”

“Not often,” commented Josephine with a small smile.

Laughing, she nodded and replied, “Well where would be the fun in stopping altogether? We just don't do it _honestly_ anymore.”

That made Josephine laugh lightly. “Yes,” she commented wryly, “it does seem more like that of late.” Her expression then went starkly serious as she added, “And I will speak with Enchanter Vivienne. There is no excuse for her taking that sort of tone with you or acting as if who you are is something you should not be.”

Meryell blinked several times at the woman before she said, “Josie, you're going to make me get all fucking emotional over here.”

“I have learned quite well that you will not change unless you wish to, Inquisitor,” said the Antivan woman with a smile. “Any that so attempt to do so without your choice being involved will answer to _me_ now.”

Tyrrania arched her eyebrows alongside Felie while Sister Cecilia smiled and Astrid let out a loud _whoop_ of excitement.

“Now _there's_ a quiet threat!” crowed the warrior. “You hear that _steel_ in it, Rani?”

“Like a good blade,” commented the Tevinter born rogue. She then formally bowed in the saddle, a thing she'd never been able to shake from her own noble upbringing despite her now ignoble life. “My deepest respect to you, Ambassador. I hope to never meet you on the field of battle, no matter what it may be.”

Josephine flushed slightly then returned the bow, saying, “Thank you, Lady Ilus.”

“Please, Ambassador, just Tyrrania. As a non-mage born to Altus parents, I was never meant to hold a noble rank.”

“Nobility,” said Sister Cecilia sagely, “is not always a thing that one is born into, dove. More often it is a thing learned.”

Tyrrania smiled at that and dipped her head in a brief nod, murmuring, “I am well corrected, Sister.”

“I meant it only to be respectful anyway,” Josephine began to defend and Meryell smiled and clucked to her Forder, moving away from them as her fellow rogue began to reassure the Antivan woman that no offense had been taken.

As she weaved her way forward through the lines, she heard Pod shout from behind her, “Oy! I thought we were going to tell the lion story! I was ready and _everything!_ ”

The laughter that followed made Meryell smile, shaking her head as she pressed onward. There were, unfortunately, other people that she needed to talk to.

* * *

“M’lady Inquisitor?”

Meryell looked up from the rereading _Adventures of the Black Fox_ while sitting in the sun outside of her tent and found one of the staff standing in front of her. The young woman, who barely looked more than twenty, was deathly pale looking despite the fact that Fereldens were a hardy looking lot. She was wringing her hands together so hard, as well, that it seemed like she might soon start to separate her skin from the muscle and bone underneath.

Tucking the scrap piece ribbon that she was using as a bookmark into the pages, Meryell quickly stood and sat it down in her chair. Reaching out, she clasped her hands around the young woman’s with a stern, “You’re going to fucking hurt yourself fretting like that. Take a breath.”

The woman’s eyes widened then she closed them, squeezing them tightly together as she took in a deep breath. She held it for so long that Meryell had to finally say, “You have to _let it out_.” Immediately the young woman expelled the breath in a gasp, looking even more flustered now and she just sighed. This was probably a lost cause at this point but she couldn’t have Inquisition staff fainting everywhere.

They were supposed to be her responsibility after all.

“Breathe again and let it out this time,” she pressed and waited until the woman had done it before she nodded. “Good. Now...what’s got you in such a damned tizzy that you were about to suffocate yourself right in front of me? You’re...” She paused to wrack her memory for the woman’s name. “...Tessa?”

“Yes, m’lady,” she replied with a slight curtsey. Then Tessa flushed bright red and stammered, “S-s-orry, Inquisitor!”

Meryell shook her head and squeezed the woman’s hands, finding a way for her fingers to delve in between them and pry them apart. As she held them, she said sternly, “I’m sure you’ve noticed that I really don’t fucking care about titles. So don’t you worry about offending _me_. Anyone gives you shit, you come tell me. Right?” Tessa nodded meekly in response and she smiled back at the woman.

“Good. Now...what was it that had you in a tizzy?”

Tessa’s face flushed a dark color but this time she didn’t have any overly dramatic reaction except for a slight added stammer when she replied. “Oh! M’lady...Inquisitor...I was s-supposed to go in and change out the Commander’s linens - orders o-of Mistress Kenna since it hasn’t been done the whole trip so far - but he was still in there! He was….”

She paused to take a breath and Meryell felt her heart clench for a moment in fear.

“He was on the floor, clinging to the c-cot as if it was the only thing holding him up,” continued Tessa. “Not even in his armor, m’lady, just his tunic and trousers! I asked him if he needed help and when he replied _yes_ I was going to go find one of his staff. Before I could leave, he reached out and grabbed my skirts, moaning your name.”

Tessa then looked uneasy and asked quietly, “Did I...did I do right, Inquisitor? I didn’t tell any of his staff that he was ill.”

_Not dying. Just normal withdrawal. Calm the fuck down._

_At least it happened on the day we decided to take as a rest day in the middle of the trip._

Nodding, Meryell squeezed her hands again and said gently, “You did fine, Tessa. I’ll see to him. Can you do me a favor though?”

“Of course, Inquisitor! Anything!”

Smiling, she said, “I’m not going to ask you to streak in your smalls or go fight a dragon.” As Tessa flushed, Meryell went on, “Inform Lieutenant Joane that he’s going to be indisposed for the day. Tell her I said so if she questions you and that I’ll be in his tent if she wants to ask the why. Then if you could go find my father. Do you know what he looks like?”

“Not enough to recognize him, m’lady,” replied Tessa meekly.

“He’s usually never in the main part of the keep so that’s not fucking surprising. Just find any Fang by the badge and ask them to point you to Folke. Then you point him to me in the Commander’s tent.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

Meryell nodded and squeezed the younger woman’s hands again before she released them with a soft, “Thank you, Tessa.” As she turned, ready to bolt away towards where Cullen’s tent was, she heard the woman’s lips part.

“Inquisitor, he will…” began Tessa uneasily. “It isn’t anything serious, is it? I-I know he caught the sick from the camps a little while ago but he seemed to be getting better.”

“Travel,” deflected Meryell. “Travel and cold’s never good for getting over sick .”

The young woman blinked at her for a moment then murmured _Of course_ before stammering out the combination of two titles again and taking off with her skirts held up in both hands. Meryell didn’t even watch her go for more than a moment before she finished her turn and ran for Cullen’s tent as quickly as she could without drawing too much attention. Suddenly she was regretting the insistence they'd put on not sleeping in the same tent while travelling.

As she reached it and went to the back door flap, which she knew would be only partially tied to help his claustrophobia, Cole abruptly appeared at her side.

“Aching, burning, spinning,” he intoned in that airy voice he got when he was reading thoughts, his volume pitched low, “Maker, it is worse this time. More blue would fix it, would soothe the hurt, tame the tangles. But more blue would also send him skittering sideways, tumbling, toppling, tipping over the edge. He will not fall. _He will not._ ”

She reached out for the spirit’s shoulder just as he smiled at her from underneath his hat and said, “He needed a bucket. I brought him one from the stable.”

“Thank you, _da’lath’in_ ,” she murmured before leaning in to kiss his cheek. She then ducked past Cole into the tent at the sound of retching and blinked as her eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light that penetrated the heavy canvas. That allowed her to see exactly what Tessa had described just ahead of her: Cullen slumped on the floor next to his cot in only a threadbare tunic and trousers, leaning on said cot as if it were his lifeline. There was now the addition of a bucket propped on his thigh and he had a white-knuckled grip on the edge of it as he brought it away from his face to drop to the floor of his tent between his knees.

He looked up, obviously having heard her enter, and she let out a breath at how utterly miserable her looked. His eyes were heavily bloodshot, his hair was a riot of curls that were half in their normal springiness and the other half weighed down by sweat, and he had remnants of whatever he’d retched up on his chin as well as what looked to be snot from an obviously running nose.

Cullen blinked slowly at her then that all-too-familiar look of someone about to be sick took over his face and he was abruptly hauling the bucket back up to his mouth. Meryell watched his shoulders shake for a moment as he retched again, wincing in sympathy, then turned with the intent to go find a cloth and a bowl of warm water.

As if he’d already known what she would want, Cole was standing at the back flap with both in hand and a gentle smile on his face.

“ _‘Ma serannas_ ,” she said softly as she took both from him. He just nodded and then vanished before she’d even turned to actually walk over to Cullen.

Cullen himself was coming back up from the next bout of retching as she sat the bowl down on the little camp table he kept near the head of his cot. He groaned, leaning his head on the edge of the cot as she dipped the cloth into the warm water, and mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

“Hush, _vhen’an_ ,” soothed Meryell as she wrung out the excess water then moved to crouch down in front of him. She wrinkled her nose at the strong smell coming from the bucket then reached out to touch his forehead, brushing a sweaty curl that was clinging to it away. “Do you think you’re going to be sick again?”

He frowned, his eyes closed now, but still leaned towards her touch as she brushed away the errant curl. For a long moment he was silent in reply before finally saying, “I don’t think so.” He then shifted a leg and grumbled noisily. “I don’t think I can sit up either.”

“ _Baba_ is coming,” she said. “And I’m having someone inform Joane that you’re indisposed for the day.”

Cullen groaned in response and Meryell smiled before saying, “At least this happened on our rest day and not while actually riding. You would have been miserable riding in the back of a wagon like this.”

One bloodshot eye fluttered open to peer at her as he grumbled, “Your logic is unwelcome here, dear thief.”

“At least you still have your sense of humor intact, _vhen’an_.”

When he huffed in response, Meryell reached out to push the bucket underneath the cot out of the way before she shuffled forward with the warm, wet cloth coiled up in one hand. “Come on,” she said firmly, “straighten up at least a little. You’ve got sick all over your face.”

Cullen grimaced as he straightened up, both eyes narrowed, his eyebrows furrowed, and snarled, “I don’t need to be treated like a _child!_ ” She flinched a little at the tone but she remembered this part from dealing with templars in withdrawal. The anger could be a bitter thing to fight against and she hadn’t yet had to deal with Cullen’s.

Meryell didn’t back down, however, and stared at him sternly as she hissed back, “If I were treating you like a _child_ , Commander, I wouldn’t be _fucking you_ on a regular basis now.”

He jerked back at that, eyes wide, and sucked in a ragged breath before he groaned at the motion, feebly swiping at his temple with his one free hand. “Maker,” he moaned, “end my suffering now. I’m sorry, Meryell. _Ir...ir abelas_. I didn’t mean that.”

“I know you didn’t,” she soothed as she reached out to gently touch his cheek. Then she held up the cloth and asked, “May I?”

Nodding weakly in response, Cullen closed his eyes and sat there just breathing slightly ragged breaths as she wiped his face off. Meryell did have to get up to retrieve the bowl in order to rinse out the cloth as well as wet it several times more before she finally had all of the remnants brushed away. As she left the cloth to float idly in the now slightly murky water, Cullen reached out and caught her hand, his arm shaking as he brought it up to his mouth. He pressed a brief kiss against her knuckles and breathed, “Forgive me, _vhen’an_.”

Smiling, Meryell leaned forward and kissed his cheek, his skin still slightly carrying the faintest smell of sick since she’d only used plain water. “There is nothing to forgive,” she replied as she squeezed his fingers before shifting her hand around so they were holding onto each other.

“I…”

Whatever he was going to say was cut off by the sound of scratching at the front flap of the tent and then Folke called out, “ _Ara vherain? Isha’len?_ ”

“Aye, _baba_ ,” replied Meryell. Her father immediately freed the catches on the front of the tent and ducked inside, doing everything one-handed as he had some kind of cloth bundled underneath his arms. He tied the tent flap back shut securely then turned around to frown worriedly down at the both of them.

“Maker’s cock, it’s dark in here,” he muttered. When Cullen started to stammer something, he waved a hand and said, “No, no, I can guess that the light’s probably bothering you. My eyes will adjust.” Folke then held up the bundle of cloth and said, “Fresh linens courtesy of that pretty little girl you had fetch me. Keep staff?”

Nodding, she replied, “Yes. And she’s half your age, _baba_.”

Folke rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Why is it that whenever I comment on someone being remotely attractive, everyone assumes that I’m going to coax them into bed and utterly ravish them on the first opportunity?” When she just stared at him in response, he sighed. “Fine, don’t answer that question.”

He put the linens down on a camp chair that sat next to another little table which was piled high with various papers and little scraps of missives that were always being traded back and forth by Leliana’s birds. Then Folke rubbed his hands together and said, “Well then, let’s get to it. Gil’s occupied for the moment with a sudden fever case otherwise I would have brought her with me. So, move your ass, Poppet, and let me sit down in front of your Commander.”

“Rude,” she commented to him and he just laughed as they quickly changed about, though Meryell didn’t wait long to move behind Cullen. She rested her hands on his shoulders and, after his immediate flinch due to his current predicament went away, began to slowly knead her fingertips into the tensed muscles.

Her father watched her for a moment before nodding approvingly and held out his hands towards Cullen, his gray eyes starkly serious. “Headache?” he asked.

“Pounding,” replied Cullen. When Folke tilted his head to the side, he let out a breath before tacking on. “Severe headache, not a migraine. Just pounding and pressure at the temples and base of my skull. Not the piercing, needle jab.”

Nodding, the mage wrinkled his nose and leaned forward to glance underneath the cot at the bucket. “Stomach upset?”

“Four times. Not over a long period of time, probably not even a quarter of a glass. I...Cole got me the bucket?” The last was a question aimed towards Meryell as he tilted his head back to look up at her and she nodded in reply. “I’ll try and remember to thank him. It’s settling now.”

Folke turned his hands over so they were palm up and asked, “Is magic bothering you?”

Meryell couldn’t see Cullen’s frown but she knew it was there as he replied, “I...I’m not sure. There aren’t any mages tented in with the soldiery and Cole has never bothered me in that way.”

“Very well. I’m going to cast a small wisp. If it hurts, you tell me and I’ll stop immediately. If it doesn’t, then I’m going to make it more powerful one little bit at a time and try to get a gauge for what level bothers you, if any. I’d close your eyes as well if light’s bothering you.”

“Of course.”

Smiling, Meryell pressed her knuckles into a particularly stubborn muscle and heard Cullen let out a long, satisfied groan. Her father frowned at her and she ceased, returning to simply kneading her fingers into the tense muscles. Folke shook his head and then murmured a word, something guttural and Chasind, and there was abruptly a small golden light cupped in the palm of his right hand.

“Cullen?” he asked softly.

“S’fine,” Cullen replied, his voice slightly strained. When Folke scowled, he idly waved the arm that wasn’t holding him up on the cot. “It’s not the magic, I promise. Whatever Meryell did, I apparently needed. That muscle’s been stubborn for the past two weeks since I’ve finally been able to do some drills.”

Nodding, Folke said, “Then I’m going to increase it. If you feel discomfort, _tell me_. Don’t be some hard ass of a templar and hold it in because it might make you seem fucking weak.”

“I’m not a templar,” grumbled Cullen.

“Then this shouldn’t be a problem.”

That made the man grumbled something else, though it was so low that even Meryell was hard pressed to catch it. It _did_ , however, sound distinctly like a not very polite word. Folke just chuckled before he sobered and the light in his palm slowly grew a little larger and brighter every few seconds. When it was about the same size as the palm of his hand, he nodded to himself and banished it with a flutter of his fingers and a smile.

“No issue with magic today,” he intoned cheerfully. “That’s good. If the nausea is going away along with the upset stomach, that means that all we’re dealing with is fatigue and a headache.” Then he added, “You can open your eyes back up, son.”

Meryell smiled and stopped her motions for a moment to just lean over Cullen’s shoulders and kiss his cheek. He hummed in reply and started to turn his head as if to kiss her before abruptly stopping, a grimace on his face. “I won’t subject you to the taste of my mouth right now,” he said. “The aftertaste of lyrium is one thing, the taste of sick is another.”

“I won’t disagree on that,” she replied as she kissed him again before straightening back up. “I’d hate to be put off fucking kissing you.”

Cullen chuckled at that and said, “So would I, _vhen’an_.”

Folke rolled his eyes and let out an over exaggerated groan before he said, “All right, love birds, enough.” He started to stand up then before he frowned and reached out to touch Cullen’s forehead, his frown deepening after a moment. “Slight fever as well. Let me guess, you woke up in sweats this morning?”

“That and the pain is what woke me,” replied Cullen and Meryell couldn’t help but smile. It was really quite astonishing just how quickly he’d become able to tell his aches and pains to Folke and Gil. Even with her he’d been a little hesitant to talk about some things at first but eventually they’d broken through whatever sort of damn had been keeping him from sharing it.

She’d even caught him actually keeping a little journal like Gil had suggested, jotting things down in it either on the fly or scrabbling with his barely ink filled quill in the dim light of morning on the fringes of a nightmare.

It made her so _proud_ of him.

“All right,” Folke said then sharply, bringing her back to the now. “Let’s get you off of the cot then and we’ll change these right now. Then it’s out of those clothes and back into bed.”

Cullen made a disgruntled noise, obviously at the idea of having to get back into bed since he had already been spending a lot of time resting, but quieted when both of them frowned at him. He held up his free hand and muttered, “I’m not actually arguing _not_ doing it. Just...complaining about it makes me feel better.”

The hedge mage burst out into a laugh at that and Meryell followed her father moments later. She smiled as she reached out to cup Cullen’s cheek and said, “Complain all you want, _vhen’an_.” Then she looked at her father and asked, “On three?”

“Two,” he replied contrarily, making her snort. The two of them then leaned over Cullen, who made a brief grumbling to the effect of _I can move on my own, thank you very fucking much_ , as they both got their arms around his shoulders and lifted him up enough to move him far enough away to let them work. He let out an annoyed huff at them and tried to keep up crossing his arms as well as an irritated look but it quickly fell apart as the fatigue got to him.

Together, Meryell and Folke quickly stripped the cot of everything except for the heavy fur that Cullen kept on it and left the pile in the floor for the moment. They then replaced them and turned the covers back before they both looked back at him.

“Shall I leave or stay?” her father asked with a grin. He waggled his eyebrows when she turned to look at him and added, “Your Commander here once accused me of wanting to see him naked, you know.”

“ _Shirtless_ ,” exploded Cullen, slightly louder than he’d probably intended. “I was talking about being _shirtless_.”

“I distinctly recall you saying _naked_ , darling,” drawled Folke before Meryell jabbed her elbow into his ribs. He coughed and hopped away from her, clutching at his side as he wheezed out a laugh. “Cocking shit, I can take a hint without the elbows, Poppet. You know I don’t actually want to see him naked.”

“No,” she replied with a smug smile, “but didn’t you always tell me that I had to protect what was mine?”

Laughing loudly in reply at that, Folke reached out to ruffle her hair fondly and dodged the fist she playfully swung at the same spot along his ribs on the opposite side. “That’s my girl!” he crowed. He then swooped over to pick up the dirty linens and darted across the tent to the still open flap at the back of the tent. “I’ll take these over to the staff while you get him all...situated. Maybe I’ll take just a little bit longer in coming back to help you get him in the cot too, just long enough for a little...well. _You know._ ”

“ _Baba!_ ”

He waggled his eyebrows at them again before he ducked out of the tent with a cackle and Meryell rolled her eyes as she noticed that Cullen was bright red in embarrassment. As he lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck and coughed slightly, she muttered, “I don’t even know why I put up with his shit anymore.”

Cullen coughed again and then smiled, letting his hand fall to rest in his lap as he said, “Because he’s your father.”

“Right, that pesky detail. Damn. And here I was plotting his demise for being such an utter ass.”

He laughed lightly at her sarcasm then held out a hand, only grimacing a little when he noticed how it was shaking. “Help me get changed, _vhen’an?_ ” he asked. There was still a bit of a blush in his cheeks after he posed the question and she couldn’t help it.

Smiling, Meryell took his hand and slowly moved forward, reaching out to touch his opposite shoulder as she closed the distance. “You’re certain you want me looking?” she teased lightly. “That’s an awfully strong blush for a man who’s gotten me naked multiple times now.”

If anything, that comment _strengthened_ Cullen’s blush and she tilted her head to the side. In Skyhold up in her room, there hadn’t been half of this amount of blushing since they’d actually gone beyond the barrier of clothes to actual sex. Even in his office, where they were sometimes a little nervous of a guard wandering too close and hearing them the handful of times they’d been in there, hadn’t caused this much of a reaction.

“You’re blushing because we’re in the middle of camp,” she said softly as she realized what the issue was.

Cullen’s mouth dropped open for a moment, his eyes wide. After a moment he closed his mouth and nodded before mumbling, “Something like that.” He then let out a breath and gestured vaguely before going on, “I’ve never...you know there’s never been anyone like you for me. And certainly never like this where anyone could hear. It just...well…”

“You don’t want them to hear?” pressed Meryell.

The look he gave her in response to that was so abruptly _fierce_ that it stole her breath and made her entire body go still. Then he _growled_ and she shuddered, limbs quivering as he said in a low tone, “I may be slightly... _jealous_...of the thought of some other man hearing you while we’re together. When you’re calling out for me.”

 _I could catch on fire right here. Fuck, I’d screw him right here on the damned floor right_ **_now_ ** _if he weren’t in the middle of a withdrawal._

“I think I like you jealous,” she managed to finally breathe. Cullen blinked at her and Meryell smiled slyly. “You get all growly and fierce. Very dominate. I like that if you hadn’t noticed.”

That started his blushing back up again and as he reached again for the back of his neck, she laughed. Leaning down, she kissed his cheek and murmured, “Enough, _vhen’an_. We’ll put this aside for later when you’re not sick.”

Cullen nodded vaguely and reached for the bottom of his tunic to pull it up over his head. As he did so, he suddenly peered at her and she frowned. “What?”

“We’re supposed to have our own rooms at Duke Gaspard’s, correct?” he asked curiously.

“So far as I can recall from what Josie’s told us about her communication with him, yes,” she replied as she moved over to his chest to dig out fresh clothes. As she picked up a tunic, Meryell looked back at him and asked, “Why?”

That bright blush was back again and he shyly looked at her as he ducked his head and muttered something she only just barely caught a few words of. What she did catch was enough to fully capture her interest and ask, “What was that, Cullen?”

He coughed in reply before muttering a little bit louder, “I wonder how well they’re sound proofed.”

Meryell bit her lip to cover her immediate response of _Better be pretty damned fucking good_ and somehow managed a coy smile instead. “Well,” she drawled as she playfully batted her eyelashes at him, “I guess we’ll just have to test that ourselves, won’t we?”

As he flushed, the red travelling down his chest and arms, she tacked on, “I imagine it’ll be _far_ better than what we get in this tent. Maybe even better than my room.” When his eyebrows went up in interest, eyes bright despite their bloodshot nature and the tiredness invading them, she smiled. “But, again, this is for _later_.”

Sighing, Cullen nodded and said, “All right, all right. Later.”

“Though I _may_ think of it tonight when I’m in my own tent,” Meryell mused airily aloud as she fished through his chest for another pair of trousers. His immediate growl in response made her laugh and she straightened as she found a pair, tucking them alongside the tunic and smallclothes she’d already gathered into her free hand. “I tease, I tease.”

“You _do_ ,” he grumbled in a low growl. Then he laughed a little wearily and said, “We’ll see what comes I suppose, _vhen’an_. We may end up far too busy or too tired to do anything in the long run. What with stopping the possible assassination of the Empress and all.”

Meryell smiled and plucked his dirty tunic out of his hands before handing him the clean one.

“If we can’t manage to have a little fucking fun - _ha!_ \- while stopping an assassination, _vhen’an_ , we obviously aren’t trying hard enough.”

That made him laugh and he reached up for her hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss her knuckles again. “I’ll surrender to the thief’s greater expertise with things like foiling assassinations and other various nefarious plots,” he said warmly. “Now will the thief help me out of my pants?”

“Can you _stay_ out of them?”

“I would if I could, love.”

“Promises, promises,” breathed Meryell before both of them broke down into laughter. She did end up helping him, of course, and by the time they were done with the last bit of lacing, Folke poked his head back in.

“Damn,” cursed the hedge mage. “I missed the show.” He then quickly went serious as he moved forward, saying, “All right, let’s get up and into the cot. Then you _rest_ with no little bouts of play time between you two.”

“ _Baba_ ,” scolded Meryell, which he just waved off.

“I’ll leave you two alone after this for a while and come back later with something around lunch. That should definitely give enough time to let that last bit of possible nausea and upset fade away enough so you can hopefully eat something weak, _isha’len_.”

Cullen nodded in response then frowned up at the two of them and asked, “Are you two going to be able to get me back over there?”

“Well,” drawled Folke, “I would hope that your legs still work.”

Narrowing his eyes, Cullen growled, “I meant lifting me up in _general_ . Since I’ve already tried to get up myself and wasn’t able to manage. _Ass_ ,” as Meryell giggled.

Shaking his head, her father replied, “It’s not like we have to raise you far.” He then crouched down, sliding one of Cullen’s arms across his shoulders, and then nodded to her. Meryell did the same on his other side, briefly squeezing her lover’s hand, and then they counted _One, two!_ together as they stood up. Thankfully Cullen managed to get his feet underneath him and they hobbled over to the cot, where he immediately collapsed into it.

Folke frowned and flicked his hand in the familiar pattern that was an alarm spell similar to Gil’s, the ground underneath the cot briefly flickering with light before it quickly faded away. “ _On nydha_ ,” he murmured with an easy smile before he left, briefly hugging Meryell about the shoulders.

Then they were alone in the tent and Cullen murmured, “You don’t have to stay.”

Meryell tilted her head as she looked down at him, already looking sleepy now that he was horizontal, his eyes half-lidded. She then shook her head and moved to grab the camp chair by the paper entrenched table, moving it over to where she could sit at the head of the bed.

“Seems like fair turnabout,” she said with a smile. “You sat with me while I was recovering.”

He chuckled lightly and replied, “I think you’re outnumbering me now on sitting next to sickbed instances.”

“Oh, is it a contest?” asked Meryell wryly. She then smiled and reached out to run her fingers through his hair, not caring if it was still slightly sweaty or even dirty. He groaned in response and curled up a little bit underneath the blankets in response, making a contented little noise at the end that was so very similar in the vaguest of senses to a cat’s purr.

Maybe there was more than the earlier reasons for the comparison to a lion. Though only _she_ got to see this particular side to Cullen.

After a moment he huffed out a laugh and softly said, “You win.” Then he immediately yawned and Meryell leaned over to kiss his forehead.

“Sleep, _vhen’an_ ,” she murmured. “I’ll be here to keep watch.”

He blinked sleepily at her at that and smiled before mumbling a rather stumbling attempt at _‘ma serannas_ before he was abruptly and suddenly asleep. She ran her fingers through his hair for a few moments before she frowned, cursing the fact that she’d left her book behind at her tent. Having a little something to do while she was sitting would have been rather nice.

“Don’t lose again,” suddenly came Cole’s voice in her ear and Meryell jerked her head around, finding him nowhere in sight. When she looked down, however, her book was sitting in her lap.

Smiling, she called out softly, “Thank you, _da’lath’in_.”

Then Meryell carefully shifted around so she could sit with one hand running through Cullen’s curls and the other turning the pages in the book propped on her knee.

It wasn’t perfect given the current predicament of the man sleeping in the cot...but it was good enough.


	44. “If you hadn't noticed, I'm not a noble. People don't elevate elves to nobility.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we arrive at Halamshiral for the festivities at the Winter Palace, where Leliana has already turned up a new plot that no one expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE WE GO. It's Meryell attempting not to drop her mask and murder every noble asshole in the building time.
> 
> Given that it's the day after Christmas, I hope everyone reading that celebrates it had a good one with either good food, gifts, friends, and family or any combination in-between. For those of you that don't celebrate Christmas, I hope whatever you might celebrate this holiday season was equally as wonderful. And if you don't celebrate anything, I hope you weren't annoyed by our holiday shenanigans.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter and I'll see y'all next Monday in the new year. Which, if no one else has noticed, the first chapter of the new year will actually be posted on the same day that I posted the very first chapter this year, January 2!

“First there will be the mingling in the outer hall and the gardens while we wait to be announced. There will be some here that you should speak to but very few, save it for the main ballroom for the most part. Once we’re announced...Inquisitor, are you listening to me?”

“Hmm?” asked Meryell as she tilted her head at her reflection in the mirror that Josephine had brought into her room at Gaspard’s manor. Dresses weren't her style but even she had to admit that this one was gorgeous and every other dress designed for the talks was designed from the same base. This particular one was a solid sheet of forest green that ran from her breasts to feet with a wide skirt that billowed out from her hips. From her breasts up was made out of some sort of sheer material with a soft coppery tone and was laced with thick interwoven cords of green that resembled tree branches, flowing down her arms until its end at the fitted cuffs of the sleeves. Though the best part was that  _ someone _ had recommended fashioning the skirts of every dress so she could easily gather the fabric up in order to get her legs free for a fight. They'd even included carefully hidden ties to hold the gathered material. All she would have to do was wear hose and her boots underneath (if she could manage to get away with the latter).

She then turned her attention away to face the Antivan woman, who was primly perched on the edge of one of the very fancy looking chairs in the room, and nodded. “I was listening, Josie. Fucking honest.”

Thankfully the woman that was helping her into one of the  _ damned dresses _ that had been designed for her to wear at this stupid fucking party was a part of the Inquisition and not a stranger that had been brought in last minute. So she could curse however she damned well pleased around her despite the fact that Josephine sighed at her every time she did.

The woman, Salain (she was pretty sure that was her name), at least had the good humor to chuckle every time she cursed.

“What did I just say then?” asked Josephine with one eyebrow arched.

Rolling her eyes, Meryell replied, “Mingle in the outer hall but not too much. Linger in the gardens outside a little bit longer than that but not overly long as we don’t want to show up last to the fucking party. Particularly not since Gaspard should be inside before we are and we’ll be introduced with him like we’re some kind of damned party trick.”

Salain let out a little snort at that and Meryell grinned, pointing down at the woman while mouthing at Josephine  _ I like her! _ The ambassador let out a soft sigh before she lifted a hand to her nose to pinch the bridge.

“Please, Inquisitor...Meryell...be serious. We have only a few hours before the ball begins and then…”

“ _ Relax _ , Josie,” she drawled. “I’m going to put my serious face on, don’t you worry. Just…” Gnawing for a moment on her lip, she added, “I’d just like to not have to do it until I have to. It’s going to be bad enough to have to put on the fucking front for those royal shits out there. I don’t want to have to put it on for you lot.”

“I…” Josephine dropped her hand and looked up with mixed concern and surprise in her eyes. “I apologize, Inquisitor. I forget that this is very different for you than it is for the rest of us.”

“It’ll be a first actually  _ playing _ the Game,” Meryell reminded. “Elves don’t usually get invited to court functions.”

“If you act as you did in my office, they will be eating out of your hand before the first night of the ball is done,” commented the other woman warmly. The confidence and surety in that statement made Meryell blush a little and she smiled at Josephine in return.

“Thanks for the compliment,” she noted warmly, “but it’s all for shit if we can’t figure out who’s aiming to off the Empress. That’s not Cullen and I, of course, being Ferelden and all.”

_ That _ made Salain look up in surprise until Josephine dryly drawled, “Please stop putting forth the idea that you and the Commander are going to single handedly take down the Empress and supposedly keep Orlais from ever trying to take over Ferelden again.”

Laughing - which seemed to make the woman still working on the dress despite her obvious concern relax and return fully to work - Meryell pointed out, “He’s the one that started it!”

“Oh, don’t be childish!”

“Fine, fine,” she grumbled, shaking her head. She then stuck out her tongue at the woman and added, “Can’t have any fun with you around, Josie.”

The ambassador let out a stern huff of breath before she said, “Were I not around, Inquisitor, I fear that somehow the whole of the Inquisition would have come undone at the seams. Or you would be running it as your company is run, which would be an utter  _ disaster _ .”

“Hey, we work!”

“The Fangs are  _ vastly _ smaller than the Inquisition,” pointed out Josephine with a stern gaze. She then tapped her knuckles on her writing board that was resting on her lap and changed the subject. “We have more to go over, of course, Inquisitor, so we must get back to it. But, first...do you like the dress?”

Meryell tilted her head to the side to look at herself in the mirror again and said, “Never liked ‘em but...this one might could grow on me. It’s simple.”

“The Commander helped in picking which design we should go with. He was uncertain about much but very sure that  _ simple _ was the way to go. Of course, Salain is brilliant at taking a simple thing and making it shine.”

_ And suggested the colors for this one as well, I’d guess _ , thought Meryell with a smile. He'd idly commented a few times on how he liked the color of her eyes.

“That is what you pay me for, Lady Montilyet,” commented the woman, her Rivaini accent at odds with her fair skin. Unlike Zarru, she wasn’t a native of Rivain by blood, or if she was, it was very distant. “Please turn now, Inquisitor.”

Meryell obeyed the command and turned in the indicated direction before looking back towards Josephine.

“So?” she asked, “what’s next?”

“Oh!” replied the Antivan. “Who to avoid in the ballroom…”

“ _ All the nobles _ ,” commented Meryell snidely, earning an affronted  _ Inquisitor! _ in immediate response. She just laughed and waved Josephine to keep on going, muttering for her to ignore her as Salain let out a soft chuckle.

Inside she was screaming a little because the first night hadn’t even  _ started yet _ and she already wanted  _ out _ .

The shit had she gotten herself into?

* * *

Just as they were stepping out of the carriages that had carried them from Gaspard’s manor to the Winter Palace, Leliana was suddenly at Meryell’s elbow with a dark look on her face. “Inquisitor,” she intoned sternly. “A moment?”

Meryell glanced over at Cullen, who had been helping her down the carriage steps since skirts weren't her forte, but he just shrugged. She then turned to the spymaster and nodded before letting the older woman pull her aside away from everyone else.

“What is it?” asked Meryell, more than a little concerned. Leliana knew the score of the Game far better than any of them and she wouldn't have pulled her aside if it wasn't serious.

The other woman frowned before asking, “How well do you wear that mask?”

She knew enough sideways talk to know that Leliana wasn't referring to the simple rift green mask that Arnald had presented her with, done in the style of many intersecting branches in an echo Mythal’s  _ vallaslin _ that she usually chose to copy when she needed to. She’d questioned his reasons for it since no one else  _ but _ him was wearing a mask (and he always wore his because  _ old habits _ ), to which he’d replied  _ To let them think you’re one of them, my girl. _ So she immediately frowned and replied, “Well enough. What the fuck’s going on?”

And she  _ did _ make sure to keep her voice low as she said the curse word.

Leliana was silent for a moment, almost seeming like she was drawing it out for the ultimate dramatic effect. Then she said sternly, “There have been many rumors that my scouts have learned while slipping into the Palace staff and Gaspard’s or merely eavesdropping upon them. This one I have held close to make certain that it was truthful before I shared it.”

Meryell merely arched an eyebrow expectantly and the spymaster scowled.

“It would seem,” she intoned dryly, “that the Grand Duke has his eye upon you, Inquisitor.”

“That's to be expected,” replied Meryell, a little confused as to why this was an issue. “I bet every assnut in this place looking to score points is going to be sniffing my ass tonight. And every other night.”

Leliana shook her head sternly and hissed, “As a potential  _ alliance _ , Inquisitor. Through marriage.”

The silence in the next moment after those words were spoken was thunderous. Before Meryell broke it by snarling under her breath, “ _ Do fucking what? _ ”

“Such is the way of nobles, Inquisitor.”

“If you hadn't noticed, I'm not a noble. People don't elevate  _ elves _ to nobility,” sneered Meryell. “Not to mention that there's only one man that I would even remotely  _ consider _ marrying. I'm not getting dragged into any political marriage and anyone that fucking thinks I am can go suck the Maker’s dick.”

Leliana just smiled coldly at that and tilted her head to the side before asking, “Shall I quash all of his attempts then?”

Frowning, Meryell turned her head to look up at the looming bulk of the Winter Palace. They needed every advantage they could get over the next few nights...and Gaspard possibly falling over himself attempting to impress her might be a good thing. She'd hate it and Cullen would no doubt want to murder the man but it could be done.

Gaspard would probably even offer to let her continue her  _ dalliance _ with her Commander at some point in the potential conversation. Assuming that people outside the Inquisition were as aware of their relationship as those within (very likely, given how people talked).

“No,” she replied sternly before turning back to the spymaster. Flashing her teeth in a wolfish smile, Meryell noted, “Why throw away what we might be able to use?”

That brought a low laugh out of Leliana and she nodded before saying, “Cullen will hate this.”

“ _ I'm  _ going to fucking hate this,” Meryell hissed. “He's apt to half get ready to challenge Gaspard to a duel.”

“Shall I…?”

“ _ Fuck no _ . I'll talk to him. As he kept reminding me, I'll remind him that it's just a job. And the company always does whatever it can to see a job get done.” When Leliana arched an eyebrow, she added with a smile, “Within reason.”

That made the spymaster laugh before she said, “I believe that we shall have a marvelous time together, Inquisitor. If I am to believe Josie’s tales of your eloquence.”

“Wait and see,  _ el'u’verelan _ . Wait and see.”

* * *

“ _ No. _ ”

“As  _ you _ kept reminding me,” Meryell hissed in an undertone as they walked through the gate to the front gardens of Halamshiral, “this is just another job.”

Cullen was  _ shit _ at hiding his murderous expression as he hissed back, “I didn't mean for that to include you...you...Maker,  _ seducing _ someone!”

“Voices!” whispered Leliana from behind them.

Meryell rolled her eyes (making sure she turned her head back towards the spymaster so it was mostly hidden) before whispering to Cullen, “Sometimes that's what a job entails, _vhen’an_. I've done it before when I fucking had to and only _once_ have I ever actually gone through with anything.” When his expression only darkened, she added, “Because I wanted to and the job was _over_.”

That didn't seem to placate him at all and he growled, “If I have to  _ watch you _ on his arm this whole time…”

“No, no, no,” scolded Leliana from behind them. “The Inquisitor will be on  _ no one's  _ arm, Commander. The Inquisition answers to no one, after all. She will merely…accept...his advances.”

“And I'm supposed to just  _ accept _ that?”

That made the spymaster smile and pat him on the arm. “Actually,” she said brightly, “You being murderously jealous might be just the thing. Look ahead at our dear host.”

Meryell turned her head and saw Gaspard standing at the fountain in the center of the garden ahead of them. He was in a classic chevalier stance but it was obvious that he was angry. Angry at  _ her _ on Cullen’s arm, even though they hadn't hidden their affection with each other in his home any more than they did at Skyhold. Hadn't seen one damned reason to except to never hint to Varric (or anyone else) that someone had finally conceivably won his betting pool about where they were going to have sex the first time.

Cullen growled, the sound rumbling somewhere deep in his chest, and Meryell wanted nothing more than to take him aside right then. To tear off that fancy coat that Josephine’s tailors had fitted in close to show off his broad shoulders and trim waist and remind him that she was  _ his _ with fingers and lips.

Instead she straightened her back, lifted her chin, and brought her free right hand up from hanging at her side. She clasped it over Cullen's hand where he held it high against his side since her left arm was tucked through his and stared unapologetically at Gaspard.

_ This is mine _ , she said silently and by the soft twitters of voices as they kept going, the message was heard. Probably wouldn't keep any of the shits away, of course.

“Inquisitor,” greeted Gaspard with a bow as they finally came within speaking distance. He then flicked his eyes towards Cullen and tilted his head slightly as he intoned, “Commander,” before nodding his greetings towards Leliana and Josephine who had held back a little.

_ Job _ , Meryell reminded herself as she smiled at the man. She squeezed Cullen's arm before she pulled away from him, dipping into the briefest of curtsy's before the older man. “Grand Duke Gaspard,” she intoned warmly, “My apologies if we're a bit late.”

“Nonsense, Inquisitor, nonsense,” he waved off with a flippant hand. He then smiled and said in an overly friendly tone, “The night was surely not to begin in earnest until a jewel such as you arrived to grace us with your radiance.”

_ Good try but I don't swoon over compliments _ .

Smiling politely, Meryell replied in a very clipped version of her normal voice, “My dear Duke, this is Orlais. The festivities will go on even if the whole of the attendees are dead. To do otherwise would simply be bad form.” She caught Cullen's slight jump out of the corner of her eye and inwardly cursed. While she may have warned him about how she physically would descend into the role she had to play, she hadn't mentioned doing the same vocally.

Soften her natural Ferelden tones, bring out a little bit more Marcher, and copy a touch of Arnald’s noble born Orlesian accent. It was just enough to make her tolerable for the rich shits according to the Captain.

That made him chuckle and he inclined his head slightly before saying, “You are correct in that, Inquisitor. Still...I hate to play the Game but it unfortunately is a thing we must participate in. To do so with the Inquisition at my side will surely do much to give credence to my cause.”

“And I can only imagine the things the Inquisition could do with Orlais’ rightful emperor at its side,” replied Meryell with a small smile, repeating a phrase he'd said when they'd arrived at his manor two days previous.

“There are many ways for us to help each other I am certain, Inquisitor Verlen.” Gaspard smiled at her before he made a vague gesture at the gardens, saying, “We still have some time before we will be announced. Take a moment to see what Orlais can offer to you.”

He then reached out for her hand and she let him take it, not flinching an inch when he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. And, thankfully, Cullen didn't make a noise despite the fact that she could see him giving Gaspard that hard, assessing stare of his.

The one he gave men who’d fucked up royally while debating what punishment they were going to serve.

“Until I see your lovely visage again, Inquisitor,” intoned Gaspard, his breath warm against her skin but it still made her want to shudder. He wasn't what she wanted and he could  _ never _ convince her otherwise. Not even for all of the gold in Orlais.

As the Duke walked off, leaving them standing in the middle of the garden by the fountain, Cullen growled under his breath to Josephine, “I have to put up with this for how long?”

“Three nights, Commander,” replied the ambassador primly as she tugged slightly at the ends of her dress sleeves in a nervous gesture. “Do try not challenge him to a duel or bring down what little allegiance we might gain while we're here.”

“I'm not a lovesick  _ fool _ , Josephine,” hissed Cullen. He then turned his eyes to Meryell and his hard gaze softened a little as she gave him an apologetic smile. Then he sighed and said, “I can't guarantee stopping myself from glaring but I won't retaliate. After all, I know where my lady's heart lies.”

Josephine made a little noise at that, like she was holding back a squeal of delight. Then she coughed lightly before saying, “I will go inside to make sure that the herald has all of our names right. If you have not made it inside by the time I am done, Inquisitor, I will come retrieve you. Is that suitable?”

“Perfectly suitable,” replied Meryell with a smile. She then looked around at the three of them before asking, “Am I to be left alone to my own devices?”

Cullen growled between his teeth as Leliana smothered a smile in its waking. “We each have things we must prepare for inside,” noted the spymaster, “as the Commander well knows. There are, of course, the honor guard still present and I have my own eyes at the ready. You will be safe to explore the garden.”

“I'll trust your eyes then,  _ el'u’verelan. _ ”

“One day I will ask what that means.”

“And perhaps one day I'll tell you,” replied Meryell with a contrary little laugh. As Leliana nodded, the other woman’s smile in her eyes now, she turned to Cullen. Gently placing her hand on his arm, she softly said, “I'll be fine,  _ vhen’an _ . It's not the first time I've navigated Orlais.”

“No,” he replied in a low growl, “but it's the first time you've navigated the Court. And I have enough nervousness for both of us in facing that.”

Shaking her head, she pointed out, “I impressed Josie.”

Sighing, Cullen said, “That really doesn't reassure me on what  _ they _ might do.”

Laughing, Meryell reached for his hand, lifting it up to press a light kiss against his knuckles. His fingers unfolded briefly, stroking her cheek before he pulled away as they'd been told to keep their contact brief, and she heard the twittering start back up from the nobles around them.

“ _ Din telsilen _ ,” she whispered and watched him frown as he attempted to remember what the words meant.

“No...strangle?” he asked, confused. “Are you warning me not to choke out the Duke because I am seriously considering it if he kisses you again…”

Bursting out into a laugh that drew the eyes of everyone - and fuck caring about  _ that  _ because it made Cullen  _ smile _ when she laughed so brightly - she replied, “No, no, no. You're thinking of  _ tel-syl-ah _ . It's  _ tel-sil-ah _ .”

His eyes looked like they were trying to cross for a moment before he said, “ _ Worry _ . Maker.”

“Yes, don't worry.”

Cullen just smiled at that and murmured, “I always worry about you,  _ vhen’an _ .” He then swept her marked hand up in his, bowing over it with far less grace than Gaspard had. However, he had all of the military precision of the templars ingrained deeply into him, which made the move graceful in its own way.

And she was more appreciative of the grace of a well wielded blade than that of well wielded words.

Then Cullen flipped her hand over with a smirk and kissed her palm right on top of the faded scar that was currently the only visible feature of the Mark. Meryell felt her face flushing brightly as he gave her a little smirk, his eyes half-lidded and  _ molten gold _ as he looked up at her, and she felt weak kneed. Andraste’s dripping  _ cunt _ , this man was too much sometimes. When he was confident and sure of his actions with next to no wavering or uneasiness in him.

He was probably going to get a  _ scolding  _ from Josephine but that look said that he didn't care one whit.

“Be safe, love,” he murmured into her skin before he straightened up, gently releasing her hand a moment later. He then nodded to Josephine and Leliana before asking, “To work?”

“To work indeed, Commander,” commented the spymaster as they started to walk off. “You've likely set the whole garden into a tizzy after that display.”

“Let them,” Meryell caught him saying before they got out of their earshot. “As someone noted recently, I should protect what's mine. And I won't let someone with a fancy title think that he can just snatch away the woman I love with empty gestures and pretty words.”

The grin she wore in response to that took several minutes to get under control before she could even  _ think _ of starting to roam the garden.


	45. “Making sure I’m putting eyes on the right people.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions are made at Halamshiral and Cullen gets a little help at fielding some of his rabid "fans" that he's garnered the attention of thanks to Arnald. Not to mention coming to the general conclusion that Orlesians are _insane_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, everyone!
> 
> So, I missed posting on my year mark by an hour. Drat and drat. I blame the fact that I was totally happy to post the first half of this and then sat down to go through [DanaDuchy](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCPk7AfBbUnVUZIu7PN14_MQ)'s video series of DAI on Youtube when I realized exactly how much _shit_ there is to cover. So I had to add in the other half and didn't finish that until about forty minutes ago.
> 
> So here's the first chapter of 2017, fresh from my hands (and the eyes of my bestest roommate [Cilera](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CileraDragonfang)). Here's to another year of writing the shenanigans of this lot.

Maker, he'd never thought that he'd ever have to stand so long at attention again once he'd left the Order. Halamshiral was rapidly showing him that he was absolutely  _ wrong _ on that.

Especially the herald who was supposed to be bleeding announcing them by now _. _

Instead Cullen was left standing at the end of a line on the landing of one of the sets of the ballroom floor stairs with Leliana and Josephine. With the collar of the  _ damned _ coat pinching at his throat, the edge of a headache flickering at his temples, and the utter  _ distraction _ of Meryell standing in front of them with Duke Gaspard as they waited.

The long folds of the skirt of her dress hid her legs (which was already a crime in his opinion) from sight but that wasn't what distracted him. No, that was taken up by the way the green fabric of the dress hugged at the curve of her spine. How the sheer copper fabric curled around her arms, showing off her lean muscles and every faded scar that etched their surface. The back of her neck, exposed not only by the short haircut Dorian had given her while they were in Crestwood but some sort of careful styling that had swept her hair in a curve away from her neck.

_ Maker’s breath _ .

If the herald didn't hurry up he was liable to embarrass himself if he kept on.

Hissing out a low breath through his teeth, Cullen instead turned his eyes towards Gaspard. The older man seemed relaxed yet still wary (probably a good tactic in the Orlesian Court) but he kept  _ looking at her _ . And even if he couldn't see the man's eyes, he knew what was there.

_ Want. _

It made him see  _ red _ .

He'd never thought himself to be a jealous man. Even in Kirkwall when he'd seen Claudia with another man after he'd ended their relationship, he hadn't been jealous. In fact he'd been happy that she had found someone who  _ could _ care for her since he hadn't been able to. Not as he was.

The Duke, however, brought out a  _ possessive _ streak in him that was a little frightening. Likely because he got the distinct impression that the man only wanted her for the power she wielded as Inquisitor. To want someone  _ only _ for that...he couldn't quite comprehend it.

Meryell was so much  _ more _ than a piece to wield on a chessboard.

“And now, presenting: Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons.”

_ Finally _ .

As the herald went on speaking, Cullen froze because that was decidedly  _ not _ what the man was meant to be saying. It certainly wasn't what Josephine would have given him.

“And accompanying him...Lady Inquisitor Meryell Verlen! Vanquisher of the rebel mages of Ferelden, crusher of the vile apostates of the Mage Underground!”

From behind him on the main floor above the landing they stood on, he heard Varric say, “This guy writes better fiction than  _ I  _ do.”

“You at least are changing things to protect people,” Dorian commented back. “This is just...preposterous.”

“Shepherd and leash of the wayward Order of Templars, purger of the heretics from the ranks of the faithful!”

Fighting against a snarl at that line, Cullen dimly heard Sera protest vehemently, “He is so full of it! That’s not how it went at all! Cully, Beardy, and me, we went there and got the ones who'd listen out.”

“It's all a show, my dear,” Madame Vivienne commented primly. “One doesn't need to tell the  _ real _ story.”

“Truth’s better than this shite, Vivvy!”

Vivienne laughed mockingly at that. “Oh, darling, how little you know.”

“Champion of the blessed Andraste herself!”

“Did you see their faces?” he heard Gaspard hiss distantly as they bowed and began to step down to walk across the main floor. “ _ Priceless _ .” Cullen's eyes were on the tips of Meryell's ears, which were flicking in annoyance.

_ Maker give her strength to not murder someone before this is over. _

The herald then called out, “Accompanying the Inquisitor: Lady Leliana, Nightingale of the Imperial Court. Veteran of the Fifth Blight. Seneschal of the Inquisition and Left Hand of the Divine.”

Their spymaster was  _ smiling _ as she stepped forward, the first to follow Meryell and Gaspard across the floor. And it was an  _ honest _ smile.

He did not understand how she could be so happy here but, knowing what little he did about Leliana, he wasn't about to stain whatever small brightness she might take for herself.

“Madame Vivienne, First Enchanter of the Circle of Magi, Enchanter of the Imperial Court, Mistress of the Duke of Ghislain.”

“Oooh, so they  _ announce _ mistresses here? How fascinating,” Dorian murmured.

“If one is out, darling, why not embrace it?”

“In Tevinter,  _ darling _ , it's considered a scandal if everyone knows who you're fucking.”

“The Iron Bull, leader of the famed mercenary company Bull’s Chargers. As the name might imply,” called out the herald and Cullen heard a whole line of loud chuckles from behind them that had Josephine turning her head to hiss a vehement  _ shush. _

The herald (who was also behind them with their tittering companions) didn't miss a beat from going into the next. “Warden Blackwall of Val Chevin, Constable of the Grey. Bearer of the Silverite Wings of Valor.”

“Beardy!” hissed Sera. “You got some kind of shiny award?”

“It's not exactly a  _ physical  _ award,” came the man's gruff reply and Cullen frowned. Blackwall sounded almost...ashamed...of his award? Given the name, it didn't seem the sort of thing one would be ashamed of having earned.

“Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath.”

His name announced like that took a moment to catch in his head. It wasn't even like most people knew where Honnleath was...or had been. He still didn't know if it had recovered after the Blight.

_ Maker, focus! _

“Commander of the forces of the Inquisition. Former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall.”

Just as he was about to step forward, he froze and hissed between his teeth, “ _ Josephine. _ ” The very  _ last thing _ he wanted was to be known for the part he'd played in what had happened in Kirkwall.

“ _ Walk _ ,” she hissed back. “We can argue semantics later, Commander.”

Growling softly under his breath, Cullen straightened up and began making his way down the steps. His boots - shiny and new and just  _ barely _ broken in enough to be comfortable - clicked loudly against the ballroom floor and he suddenly felt the focus of everyone there like a hammer blow. It made his shoulders tighten up as he felt overly exposed.

Maker, he hadn't been this tense even on that first fumbling night with Claudia. And here there wasn’t a moment of awkward giggling at each other to make him feel more comfortable.

Behind him, the herald droned on.

“Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena -”

“Get on with it!”

Cassandra's comment was probably louder than she'd intended but it took the edge off of his own nervousness to hear the long pause made by the herald before he hurried on.

“- Pentaghast. Fourteenth cousin to the King of Nevarra, nine times removed. Hero of Orlais. Right Hand of the Divine.”

“Arnald Seraine, Captain of the acclaimed mercenary company the Fangs of Vimmark. Second son of the late Baron Jehan Seraine and brother of Baron Remon Seraine.”

Cullen heard a distinct murmur go up from the crowd in the ballroom and resisted a smile. Arnald had warned them that announcing him as accompanying them would raise some eyebrows. Though he'd also said that the herald would probably state some sort of reminder of his disgrace.

The herald then coughed before calling out in a slightly annoyed tone, “Her Ladyship Mai Bhalsych of Korse.”

Sera’s cackling little snicker echoed through the ballroom and Cullen smiled as he came to a stop at the base of the other stairs. Good on her for getting such a little thing on over the whole Court. Though he was really surprised that Josephine had let it pass with as stressed as she'd been about all of this.

“Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet of Antiva City, Ambassador of the Inquisition.”

That was the last advisor, Cullen noted. Josephine had arranged for the herald to announce each of them first and follow it with three of their companions since it was enough speaking to cover their walk across the ballroom to the base of the stairs.

They were  _ this close _ to getting off the Maker damned floor.

“Renowned author Varric Tethras. Head of noble House Tethras. Deshyr of Kirkwall to the Dwarven Merchants Guild.”

There was some commentary from  _ someone _ in their group but he couldn't hear it clearly on the other side of the large room.

“Lord Dorian Pavus, member of the Circle of Vyrantium, son of Lord Magister Halward Pavus of Asariel.”

_ One. More. _

The last thing the herald called out was, “The Lady Inquisitor’s elven serving man, Solas.” And Cullen watched Meryell’s hands curl momentarily into fists at the implication that she,  _ an elf from an alienage _ , would have an elven serving man. Let alone a serving man at all.

She hated to be served half the time by the staff that Josephine had hired to service the everyday needs of the keep. It was why she ran her own errands most of the time. To imply that one of the inner circle was a mere servant...well, that might just be someone's head.

“Cousin,” he then heard Gaspard say. “Sister.”

Cullen turned his eyes upward to regard the Empress of Orlais. She was undoubtedly a beautiful woman and held herself with a straight-backed poise that would put some of his most staunch recruits to shame. There was a presence about her that drew one's eye...and he wasn't referring to the almost sunburst type attachment to the back of her dress. It was the sort of presence that Greagoir had had, that Meredith had had around her once, that Hawke had woven around herself by the end of everything in Kirkwall: an invisible cloak of power that was unmistakable.

_ We do not want her for our enemy _ , he recalled Leliana saying firmly before they'd left Skyhold. Suddenly he had an inkling at why.

“Grand Duke,” Celene said with the smallest of smiles as she picked up the hand resting on the railing in front of her. “We are always honored when your presence graces our court.”

Gaspard made a vague noise in response before saying gruffly, “Don't waste my time with pleasantries, Celene. We have business to conclude.”

He distinctly heard Leliana let out a little exasperated sigh and flicked his eyes over to see Josephine’s jaw in a tense line that said she was holding onto something. Ahead and above him, Meryell's right ear flicked in annoyance.

And Cullen could instantly feel the disappointment at the man's brusque demand coming from the Empress. Maker, he was beginning to think Gaspard was utter  _ shit _ at this Game that the Orlesians liked to play. It was either that or the man just didn’t care a whit for it tonight.

“We will meet for the negotiations after we have seen to our other guests.”

Celene’s response  _ sounded _ polite but even  _ he _ knew that the Grand Duke had made some misstep.

It didn't seem to bother the man himself as he bowed and made some sort of dramatic gesture with his arms (was that  _ common _ in Orlais?). As he straightened, he uttered a quiet, “Inquisitor,” before turning to climb the steps to their left. Cullen watched him go and caught the eye of Pod as the elf walked by in the servant's garb they'd arranged for tonight.  _ Watch him _ , he signalled, flicking his fingers in a brief gesture along his leg.

Pod nodded and disappeared into the crowd, moving with the liquid ease he'd noticed all of the company’s Dalish elves had.

He then turned his attention back to the proceedings as the Empress said, “Lady Inquisitor, we welcome you to the Winter Palace. Allow us to present our cousin, the Grand Duchess of Lydes, without whom this gathering would have not been possible.” She gestured to the woman standing next to her in brown and gold, whose short hair seemed at odds with the style of most of the noble ladies present.

“What an unexpected pleasure,” she said lightly, though there was something...off...about her tone. He couldn't put his finger on what though. “I was not aware the Inquisition would be part of our festivities.”

The oddness ratcheted a notch higher when she smiled and turned to walk away with a parting, “We must certainly speak later, Inquisitor.”

He didn't recall the title Duchess of Lydes (there had been  _ many _ Duchesses, just not that particular one) from their frequent briefings and discussions on what could, should, and would go on while they were here. As soon as they got off of the floor, he would inquire with Josephine and Leliana as to who she was. And put one of their other people undercover as servants on watching her.

Or...wait. Gaspard had said  _ Sister _ in greeting. His sister? Now  _ her _ he remembered being mentioned but never by a title beyond Duchess.

“Your arrival at court is like a cool wind on a summer’s day,” he heard the Empress say then, drawing him back out of his thoughts.

Meryell folded her hands in front of her and he could see the edge of her polite smile as she replied vaguely, “Let’s hope the breeze doesn’t herald an oncoming storm.”

“Even the wisest mistake fair winds for foul. We are at the mercy of the skies, Inquisitor.” Celene briefly paused then asked, “How do you find Halamshiral?”

“There are no words sufficient to describe it. Halamshiral has many beautiful things and I have never seen their like in all my travels.” He wanted to laugh a little at that comment because he knew a few of the places she’d been hired to steal things from. Meryell had never been shy about telling him stories of jobs she’d taken, not after that first conversation they’d had what seemed so many ages ago now.

“Your modesty does you credit,” the Empress’ comment very nearly made him snort, “and speaks well for the Inquisition. Feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the ballroom, Inquisitor. We look forward to watching you dance.”

As Meryell dipped into a bow and the three of them followed since they were all still before the Empress, Cullen wondered if the word  _ dance _ didn’t mean quite a lot of things tonight. Given that this was Orlais, it no doubt did.

Then they were all up the stairs and Cullen plucked at the sleeve of Josephine’s dress. As she turned her head towards him in acknowledgement, he hissed quietly, “The Duchess with Celene, she’s Gaspard’s sister?”

“Yes,” she replied as they moved out of the way of the staircase up from the ballroom floor, stopping at the railing that surrounded the upper level. “I am certain we went over this before we left Skyhold, Commander.”

“Only by name,” Cullen replied shortly as his eyes focused briefly on Meryell where she continued walking away from them with Leliana, seemingly deep in some conversation. “I don’t recall her ever being mentioned by her title. Not that one anyway.”

Josephine frowned as if in thought before saying, “My apologies, Commander. But...why do you ask?”

“Making sure I’m putting eyes on the right people.”

“ _ Commander _ .”

Ignoring her scandalized tone, Cullen said sharply, “There’s something about her that feels wrong, Josephine. Maybe it’s just me being overly protective but…”

“You don’t believe it is,” she finished for him with a frown.

Shaking his head, Cullen watched her sigh and fold her arms as she considered that for a moment. Then Josephine nodded and said, “It is better to be safe than sorry. But do  _ try _ to have someone subtly keep an eye on her. No doubt you already have someone watching Gaspard.”

“Pod. I’ll grab the next I see and set them on the Duchess.”

“ _ Not. Sera. _ ”

Rolling his eyes a little, he replied, “Maker’s breath, I’m not an idiot, Josephine. I wouldn’t set Sera on anyone unless I wanted them strung up in some kind of trap before the night was over. Or covered in bees. Or both, to think on it.”

“Hopefully we won’t have to resort to such measures even if she  _ has _ been given permission to cause mayhem tonight.

“ _ Controlled _ mayhem,” reminded Cullen with a smile.

Josephine shook her head at that and replied, “I’m not certain she knows the meaning of the word.” Then she frowned, turning her head as if hearing something, before her eyes went wide. “Excuse me, Commander. I have...there’s something I must deal with.”

Cullen just blinked after her for a moment, a little confused at the abrupt farewell, but shook it off. He needed to find a reliable person amongst their people to set on the Duchess and get to the position in the ballroom that was supposed to be his.

There was work to be done.

* * *

Despite the fact that he had settled into his spot in the ballroom - which gave him a fine view of much of it, including both of the main doors that were being used for the night - Cullen didn’t feel like he was getting anything done.

Not long after he’d caught the wrist of one of Leliana’s spies amongst the servant’s, hissing an order in her ear to find and watch the Duchess, he’d been set upon by  _ nobles _ . Each one clamoring and chattering at him like the birds that had taken to nesting in his rafters in the winter. Though he hadn’t had the heart to kick out the birds and he’d rather like to pitch every one of the nobles over the closest railing if he could.

They were a fucking horrible distraction and he was getting more and more frustrated at the fact that as soon as he thought he’d fielded the entirety of questions from one enough that they would leave, they would quickly be replaced by another. It was enough to make him  _ scream _ .

“ _ Excusez-moi. Oui, pardonnez-moi. _ ”

_ That _ voice, thankfully, sounded blessedly familiar and Cullen let out a breath that he wasn’t about to be bombarded by yet another stranger. He also noticed very quickly as Arnald not so subtly pushed his way through his little crowd of followers that many of them curled their noses up and left. In fact, moments later they were alone, and he managed to relax for a mere moment after what had felt like several tense hours. Arnald stood next to him quietly, relaxed in that Orlesian parade rest stance that he still had even after so long out of their army.

“Thank you,” he said quietly as he worked to regather his bearings. He hadn’t quite realized just how tense he’d become from the constant bombardment of their questions and attentions.

Arnald merely hummed and flipped a hand at him in response, replying, “It was nothing, Commander. I’ve been finding so far tonight that my presence is very good at clearing out areas of the ballroom.”

Cullen caught a hint of uncomfortableness in the man’s voice and noted, “I was under the impression that you expected that from what you told us of what would likely happen when you were announced along with everyone else.”

“Mmm. Expecting it and experiencing it, I’m afraid, are two quite different things.” The older man then turned his head slightly and smiled. “I will be glad to be of service on the occasion that you need a break from the vultures, however. Maker, I do so remember my own days of being chased by all of the eligible and, hmm,  _ not _ so eligible members of the court. It was very rarely a pleasureable experience.”

To hear that an Orlesian who’d grown up in the very society he’d been thrust into (if on the lesser side from what he recalled of their noble hierarchy) had been just as uncomfortable as he was made Cullen feel a little better. Finally straightening back up into a normal stance from his moment of relaxing his tense shoulders and back, he asked, “What did you do about them then?”

Chuckling, Arnald replied, “Many things that you would not do, Cullen. Often I would give one lady my attention for the night and that would throw off the vultures until the next  _ soirée _ . That is, however, not a strategy that would work for you.”

“No.”

“Indeed. I have heard some things of note whilst I’ve been wandering the floor and scandalizing the nobility with my presence.”

“And?” asked Cullen.

Smirking, Arnald focused his gaze across the ballroom to the doorway that led to another part of the palace and very subtly tilted his chin in that direction. “There is a young man,” he began, dropping his voice, “who is wandering around in there complaining about how his fellow serving-man, Philippe, has been off dallying with a servant girl for hours.”

Arching an eyebrow, he asked, “How is that relevant to finding our assassin, Captain?”

“Ah, because our dear serving-men serve our ever so dashing host.” Arnald made a brief gagging noise and shook his head before muttering, “Ugh, even saying such things jokingly after Gaspard appalls me. He may be a fine military mind but he’s a  _ shit _ of a person. Even my father agreed on that and he stood behind him during the first outrage after Celene convinced the Council of Heralds to give her the throne.”

Before Cullen could start to speak to ask what was the  _ point _ , the other man went on, “Apparently our complaining friend has been facing Gaspard’s vitriol on his own. Mostly due to the fact that there is only one of them to convey his death threats to the Council.”

It took a moment for his words to actually register and then Cullen hissed through suddenly clenched teeth, “Are you telling me that Gaspard is sending death threats to the six Council members that are here?” Josephine had been very firm in that they know how many of the Council were to be attending the talks at Halamshiral, so he was fully aware in how many there were.

Arnald just laughed and replied, “Oh, Commander, it’s not a party in Orlais without at least one threat to one’s person. At least that’s what my cousin Perrin used to say.”

He turned to stare at the older man for a moment in shock at that statement - he’d been taught to take death threats  _ seriously _ \- before saying, “ _ Used to? _ ”

“Poor Perrin got involved with the wrong players at court and ended up with a dagger in his throat one night.” Arnald turned his head to look back at him, dark eyes stark behind the brighter colors of his mask. “Gaspard may be brash but I don’t think him fool enough to actually think he can take out one of the Council. Despite how it may have seemed on the floor tonight, he’s actually quite good at the Game.”

“So we  _ shouldn’t _ worry about the fact that he’s threatening people?”

“Oh no,” replied the Captain sternly. “We should worry a great deal that he actually might have something to hold over them but I believe it would only be in regards to his feud with Celene. For all of his fouler nature, I don’t believe he is our assassin.”

Cullen let out a huff of breath before asking, “Does Meryell know this yet?”

“I believe she’s poking her nose into the Guest Wing at the moment after finding some sort of blood trail.”

“ _ Blood _ ...Maker’s breath.”

Arnald just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder warmly before giving him a parting, “Welcome to Orlais, Cullen,” before he walked off. Instantly Cullen could feel eyes zero back in on him and the stiffness in his back and shoulders returned in full force.

Maker’s breath, and he had to deal with _two more nights_ of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**
> 
> Excusez-moi - excuse me  
> Oui, pardonnez-moi - yes, pardon me  
> Soirée - evening


	46. “For the love of me not stabbing the next yammering fucker in the throat, please tell me we’ve heard something.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between how she's been getting through talking to nobles and her methods of getting to the places she needs to investigate, Meryell is fairly certain that Josephine is going to kill her after they finish things at the Winter Palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for being late again, guys. Halamshiral is being slightly harder to nail down than expected.
> 
> For anyone interested, I'm planning to eventually post a rough outline of the timeline as well as a guide to the original characters who show up in this fic on my Wordpress blog, [Power in Stories](http://stories.terion.net/), which is one of the other places where I'm posting this as well as other fics/original stuff. I'll post when exactly it's up and link it if anyone actually wants to peruse it.

_ Just behind the chin in the soft spot there, angled back to avoid the slope of the skull. Not too far forward or you hit bone or too far back to catch the muscles of the throat. Drive it in deep and you pierce the brain. A swift killing blow that, if done right, they would never even know it happened. _

Josephine would  _ kill her _ if she knew the way Meryell was making it through conversations with the Orlesian nobles.

This one, though, this Lord Ezoire de Hallies was useless in actual information. He just kept yammering on about this woman who had insulted him and been granted sanctuary by the Marquis of Serault, a Ysabeau Caignel, instead of turning her over for her insult. That and talking loudly enough that the woman herself - recognizable partly because she was maskless for some reason - on the other side of the ballroom could probably hear him.

Meryell, being who she was, was of the opinion that the Inquisition needed to possibly get to know this Marquis.

She had other people to talk to though. People who might actually have some information to stop the assassination she was actually here for.

Coughing in what she  _ hoped _ was a polite manner, she said, “My Lord, that story is quite fascinating and it’s an utter  _ shame _ that the Marquis would treat you so, but I believe that one of my advisors wishes to speak to me. If you’ll excuse me?”

The man blinked behind his mask for a moment, mouth gaping underneath in a rather unattractive way, then he regained his composure and said, “Of course, Inquisitor Verlen, of course. One should never be drawn away from doing one’s duty.” And, with that, he was gone and she let out a hiss of breath between her teeth before heading towards Leliana.

The red-headed woman flicked her eyes towards her as she approached and Meryell muttered under her breath, “For the love of me not  _ stabbing the next yammering fucker in the throat _ , please tell me we’ve heard something.”

That made Leliana laugh softly and - to her credit - she didn’t comment on the fact that Meryell was armed. It wasn’t much, just a plain stiletto that rested in a harness along her right thigh, fastened upside down so she could actually draw it around the hassle of the skirts. What it was was enough to keep her comfortable amongst the sea of backstabbing cunts that occupied the vast ocean of the Game.

“I saw that you had met Lord Ezoire,” she commented softly. “I see that he also made it out of the encounter alive.”

Meryell bared her teeth in a smile as she replied, “I really am trying to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. That should at least be saved until the second night according to Orlesian protocol, right?”

The spymaster just smiled in reply then turned serious as she asked, “Have you spoken to Duke Gaspard again since we were introduced?”

“You mean your eyes and ears haven’t been keeping up with my movements as usual? I’m almost insulted,  _ el'u’verelan _ .”

“In the court, it is far better for them to watch others.”

Well, she had to give it to the woman. She had  _ no qualms _ about admitting that she had people watching her. There were less than there used to be but Meryell was pretty good at picking out people who were keeping an eye on her, so she still knew that there were a few. They thankfully only kept track of  _ most _ of her doings in Skyhold and she’d noticed that they’d never followed her anywhere near her room, Cullen’s tower, or down into the depths of the keep to her hiding place.

The last was literally the only reason she hadn’t confronted the older woman about it. There was some kind of respect in that gesture, so she pretended in turn to not notice the eyes following her and let the  _ el'u’verelan _ have her information.

Tilting her head slightly in a nod, Meryell turned so she had her back to the wall as Leliana did before saying, “I did manage to meet up with him again. He asked if I would do him a favor as a  _ friend _ while he leered from behind his mask at my breasts.”

“You cannot even see his eyes through that mask.”

“No, but he kept licking his lips and I  _ know _ what that’s about. I’ve seen it enough on the faces of some piss drunk sot or back alley asshole to know that it means.”

Leliana sighed then asked, “What sort of favor did he ask of the Inquisition?”

Snorting, she answered, “Apparently he suspects Briala is here to disrupt the negotiations. Said that his people have found her ‘ambassadors’ all over the fortifications and sabotage is the least of their crimes.”

“You think her not suspect?”

“I think they’re  _ all _ suspect,” replied Meryell sternly. “I’ve watched the Game be played from enough rafters, hidden passageways, and hidden in nooks and crannies to know that no one is innocent here.”

That brought another smile to the other woman’s face as she asked, “Not even us, Inquisitor?”

Meryell just smiled back a little bitterly.

“I haven’t been innocent in a very long time.”

Nodding, Leliana then said, “While the ambassador may be up to something, she cannot be our focus tonight. After all, the best place to strike at Celene is…”

“From her side,” interrupted Meryell, finishing the sentence. She frowned darkly for a moment before she forcibly relaxed her face and asked, “You suspect someone?”

“Perhaps.” There was a moment’s pause then she went on, “Empress Celene has long been fascinated by mysticism: foreseeing the future, speaking with the dead, all of that sort of rubbish.”

Letting out a huff of breath, Meryell commented, “Zarru would tell you that while a lot of mysticism  _ is _ rubbish, there is some truth to it. She’s got some stories about Rivaini seers and hedge mages that you wouldn’t believe if she didn’t tell them with such a serious face. Though I’m going to guess that’s not your point.”

“Hardly. She has an ‘occult advisor’, an apostate who has charmed the Empress as well as key members of the court. As if by magic.” Leliana’s expression was dark, darker than it had been in some time, as she added, “I have...dealt...with her in the past. Be wary, Inquisitor, for she is ruthless and capable of anything.”

Meryell arched her eyebrows at the sheer  _ vehemence _ in her tone, which was probably more emotion that she’d ever seen from the older woman. She wondered how exactly she and this apostate had met and what it was that had made Leliana react in such a way. Honestly, she’d thought the worst reaction the  _ el'u’verelan _ had was to herself but this might just take the mabari.

Instead of asking about that, pushing the personal question aside for later, she instead asked, “Just how long has Celene had an apostate at court?”

“Technically not until recently. The Imperial Court has always had an official position for a mage but it was little more than a court jester until Vivienne took the position. She  _ made _ it a source of real political power. Of course, when the Circles rebelled, every mage became an apostate.”

Shaking her head, Meryell asked, “And you think she might be our assassin?”

“As you said, everyone is suspect, Inquisitor. It is, at the least, worth investigating if only to know what she is using the court for.”

“Right. Easy enough.”

Leliana shifted forward a step, obviously aiming to start walking, then said, “Be careful, Inquisitor. There are many eyes upon you tonight.” Then she strode off, leaving Meryell standing there subtly rolling her eyes because  _ of course _ there were eyes on her tonight.

It was  _ fucking Orlais _ . Everyone watched  _ everyone _ in fucking Orlais.

* * *

“Sera,” Meryell hissed as she buzzed past the other elf through the ballroom, reaching out to gently grasp her elbow, “I need to borrow you.”

“Please let it be for arrows,” groaned the young woman as she fell into step. “These rich tits are just getting boring now. So many secrets that they think are secrets are just... _ out there _ . Like they  _ want _ people to know.”

Shrugging, she replied, “That’s the  _ Game _ . And unfortunately, no, not for arrows. The night is still young though.”

“Pff, not young enough then.”

Sera then shifted their arms, looping them together and drawing Meryell up close to the simple but elegant coat that had been fitted for her. She could feel the press of a blade or two through the coat from the contact and smiled. Because of  _ course _ Sera didn’t come into the Winter Palace unarmed.

“So whassit, Quizzy?” she asked, dropping her voice low. “You get tired of playing their game yet and want out? I know all the exits and even a few that your jackboot’s men haven’t been able to find.”

“I was tired of playing their game a month ago when we started finishing up plans for this shit,” Meryell snarled under her breath. “Not the point though. I need a distraction to get into one of the wings. There’s a blood trail that leads into it and that usually means not good things.”

And she sure as  _ shit _ wasn’t climbing the lattice work in the garden to follow that trail. It was far too exposed, even with a distraction.

Sera’s pale eyes lit up and a broad grin spread across her face before she chirped, “Fire or no fire?”

Snorting, she answered, “Given that it’s going to be inside, I’m going to say no fire. We don’t want to be responsible for burning down the whole party.”

“Aww, but it might be fun.”

“Let’s save it for after we’ve caught the assassin, hmm?”

“ _ Fine _ ,” grumbled Sera, “no fire.” She then turned oddly serious for her as she asked, “How long do you need the stuffed up pricks distracted for?”

Meryell smiled as she replied, “Long enough for me to pick a lock.”

The other elf pursed her lips for a moment before smiled wickedly, saying, “Go get to your spot and count for twenty breaths after you get there. When you hear retching, hop to it.”

Arching an eyebrow, she asked, “Do I  _ want _ to know?” As Sera’s smiled just widened, Meryell held up a hand and answered her own question. “Y’know what, don’t answer that. That way I can deny to Josephine later that I didn’t know shit about it.”

“Better safe than sorry, Quiz!”

That was Sera’s parting shot and they separated swiftly from each other, Meryell heading towards the end of the ballroom that held the locked door that she’d figured out lead to the area she needed to get into and Sera heading to who knew where. She spotted Cullen as she moved across the room, looking uncomfortable and  _ surrounded _ by a crowd of people, and scowled.

Andraste’s dripping cunt, they were pressing him in on all sides and that definitely couldn’t be helping his claustrophobia at all.

Turning her head away, Meryell spotted Arnald speaking with someone and came up behind him with a smile for whoever it was, bobbing slightly into a curtsy as she murmured an apology for the interruption. Lightly resting a hand on the Captain’s arm, she leaned in close to his ear and whispered, “Please go and rescue Cullen. Give him a damned breather from those shits at the least.”

“And where are you going that you can't rescue him yourself?” he replied.

“Someone's got to figure out where the obvious blood trail everyone else is  _ ignoring _ goes to.”

Arnald snorted softly before he said, “Fair enough.” He then turned back to the man he'd been speaking to and said, “Excuse me for a moment, Claude. It seems I have a bit of an errand to run.”

“Bah, it is fine,” replied the man and Meryell finally focused on him. He was wearing a fuller mask than Arnald was but not quite to the size of Gaspard’s or any of the nobles who had full-sized face masks. His mask, however, was of the same color as Arnald except a few shades darker with the same designs of small grape vines in a line along the parts that covered his cheekbones. Judging by that and the fact that Arnald knew him by name, he was a member of the Seraine household. After a moment, the man - Claude - gestured at her and asked, “She is one of yours, yes? One of your Fangs?”

“Ah,  _ pardonne-moi _ , I forget my manners after so long outside the Court. Claude, this is Meryell Verlen, our Inquisitor and, yes, one of mine. My girl, this is Claude Rolant, who’s served the Seraines since I was a boy.”

Claude chuckled and said, “I was but a boy then myself,  _ Capitiane _ .” He then bowed respectfully towards her and intoned, “Well met, Inquisitor. We hear so much of the exploits of the Fangs of Vimmark amongst the vines but never anything specific about those that follow our  _ âme perdue _ .”

Arnald snorted at that, saying, “Really, Claude, lost soul?”

“What else am I to call you when you never visit anymore,  _ petit aigle _ ?”

“ _ Not _ that.”

The other man laughed and turned his head, allowing Meryell to see that his dark brown hair was streaked liberally with gray beyond the edges of his mask where she hadn’t been able to see before given the short cut of it. He then waved a hand saying, “ _ Aller, aller,  _ Arnald. I will speak to you another time before you leave after the negotiations. Do remember to find your brother should you get a free moment of time.”

He then turned, bowing again towards her, and intoned softly, “It was a pleasure, Inquisitor Verlen.” Then he left them standing there and Meryell just blinked before she spoke.

“So...old friend?”

“His mother was our mother’s favorite handmaiden and he is the same age as my brother, Remon. They grew up together, played together, and Claude had just officially joined the staff when I turned five. He always helped me get up to mischief, even when it was against my brother.” Smiling wistfully, Arnald shrugged before saying, “But, you wanted me to rescue your Commander from the vultures  _ because  _ of a blood trail?”

“Close enough, Captain.”

Snorting, he said, “Very well. Go and hunt your lead, my girl. When you get back find me again as I believe I overheard something earlier that will aid in our efforts.”

“Tell the  _ el'u’verelan _ .”

“What did I say, Verlen?” he asked, his voice stern and his dark eyes serious.

With a sigh, Meryell hissed out, “Find you when I get back. Fucking hell, Captain, you’d think I wasn’t Inquisitor with the way you’re ordering me around.”

“Well, as you said, Your Worship, I can’t get down on my knees since I was born with a stick up my ass,” Arnald noted with a broad smile, repeating to her a comment she’d said well over a year ago back in Haven. Maker’s cock, that seemed so  _ long ago _ . “Now go break into wherever it is you’re going to break into.”

“Guest Wing,” she replied with a smile before she turned away from him, hearing him let out a chuckle from behind her as she strode away. He’d get those rotten cunts off of Cullen for a moment or two, give him enough breathing room to catch his bearings again, she had utter faith in that. Enough that she didn’t have to look as she crossed the rest of the ballroom to check on his progress as she moved to stand near the base of the two staircases, each leading to one of the wings of the Palace.

Meryell slowly drew in twenty breaths and she started moving when she heard the distinct sound of Sera’s gleeful cackle. She reached a hand into the bodice of her dress as she mounted the stairs that led up to the locked door and caught the sound of several instances of retching as she pulled out the tiny cloth pouch that held her lockpicks from within her breastband. Looping the cord over her fingers after she tugged the picks themselves out of the pouch, Meryell quickly bent over the lock and leaned her ear against the door to listen to the sounds of the tumblers.

She could still hear someone retching and there were frantic voices beyond that talking about everything from  _ bad shellfish _ to  _ poison _ in overly loud whispers. Amongst all of that, of course, was Sera’s laughter before someone new started retching to start the whole debacle over again anew.

Josephine was going to  _ kill her _ .

The tumblers of the lock clicked into place then and Meryell smiled before she hurriedly tucked her picks back into their pouch then those back into her breastband. But before she ended up dying at the hands of her always seemingly incredibly stressed out ambassador, she had investigating to do.

Chuckling softly to herself, Meryell opened the door and stepped inside to see what new things the Winter Palace had to tell her about what the shit was going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**
> 
>  
> 
> pardonne-moi - pardon me  
> capitaine - captain  
> âme perdue - lost soul  
> petit aigle - little eagle  
> aller - go


	47. “The three of them are just playing with each other. Like a game of cat and mouse for fuck’s sake.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation of what's going on at Halamshiral continues, Gaspard makes a move, Meryell debates saying fuck everything, and shit goes down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The actual chapter is here! The chapter is here!
> 
> I'm leaving the original bit I posted here to just show what went on previously (and context for the comments I got). I did move the keeping up to date link to the end notes, so if you're looking for my Twitter or Tumblr links, they're down below.
> 
> I didn't get the number of chapters I wanted done (and 48 has some issues that need to be ironed out before it's posted), so here's just 47. 48 will probably arrive next Monday and, hopefully (fingers crossed), the update schedule will continue as normal again from this point forward.
> 
> I forgot to warn when I posted that there is a very very minute mild-NSFW bit in the third section.
> 
> ~~Sorry, guys, not an actual chapter.~~
> 
> ~~I'm working on them (47 is done but needs reading and 48 feels like it's getting close, _so close_ ) and I would like to have all the chapters I need to make up posting for done before I get them up. Which is three right now (though will be four by this Monday). 49 is, thankfully, already brewing in my head and hopefully 50 will come easily after that.~~
> 
> ~~My reasons for being late include me and my procrastinating ass, life, current American politics (let's not even get started there about what a veritable shitstorm I think it is at the moment, just suffice to say it's more of a shitstorm than it has been before the election of our new President), and juggling both Overwatch and the World of Warcrack.~~
> 
> ~~I'm hoping to get 48 done soon and then slam out 49 AND 50 before Monday. Which, if they all get read by my awesomest of roomie's over the weekend, will mean four - yes, FOUR - chapters all at once. Also possibly a new Fragment or two.~~

There was someone in the room just above the lattice work running up from the garden and they had opened what looked like a secret doorway between it and the main library. Meryell could hear them moving around, her ears twitching irritably at the fact that they weren't speaking. Which meant that she couldn’t tell who they were or if they were possibly friend or foe.

By all the rules she ran by on a job, assume enemy first.

Frowning, she slowly slid a hand beneath her skirts and tugged open the buckle that held her stiletto in its sheath. Carefully drawing it out, she kept it in a backhanded grip with the blade along her forearm to keep it out of sight then slid forward and around the corner.

The instant she saw the back of her intruder, the tenseness in her shoulders relaxed and she hissed, “ _ Baba _ ! What the shit are you doing up here?”

Folke turned to grin at her before he straightened the heavy coat he'd donned for his ‘act’ for the Palace. He was wearing the same dress as any of the other Inquisition runners, allowing him to basically go wherever he wanted to go (within reason). Someone, she could see, had taken some sort of powder to his face in an attempt to hide his scar and it threw her off for a moment. It softened the rough edges and made it less obvious but, to her eyes, that just made the wound  _ worse _ .

It had always been a reminder for  _ her  _ to  _ do better.  _ To not get them caught or put him into danger he didn't have to be in. Having that reminder, which was still as fierce looking as it had been since he'd gained it thanks to the properties of magebane resisting healing of any kind, lessened felt like it was brushing aside that warning.

She got that it needed to be done because his scar was  _ distinctive _ . But Meryell wanted nothing more than to wipe that shit off his face just so she could see the damned thing again.

“Investigating some whispered things I overheard while lurking about. Some of the elven servants were talking about a package being delivered to this room so I thought I'd look into it myself.”

“And  _ how  _ did you get up here?” asked Meryell, hoping his answer  _ wasn't  _ the lattice work. He, however, confirmed it was by tipping his head in that direction and she groaned. “ _ Baba _ , the garden…”

Folke flapped a hand to interrupt her, quickly saying, “Oh, don't you worry,  _ ara’vherain _ . No one in the garden saw me climb up with the little scene that Dorian and the Iron Bull put on as a distraction. There was a lot of very tasteful groping and a plethora of appalled gasps from the guests, not to mention a few interested looks.” He then paused to smile as if in memory before musing wistfully, “It looked like quite a lot of fun…”

Snorting, Meryell said, “You know we had to leave Rylen back at Skyhold,  _ baba _ . He's Cullen's best captain, so he was the obvious one to leave in charge.”

“That doesn't mean that I can't complain about my bed being cold, Poppet,” he replied, waggling two fingers at her. She blinked a little at the comment - being in a relationship had rarely meant that Folke couldn't find comfort in someone else besides his current partner - then shrugged it off. She'd have to talk about what was going on between him and the Knight-Captain later.

Particularly since she knew that Cullen was considering sending Rylen and a small company of soldiers to the Western Approach with Alistair and Hawke after they cleared out the mess in the Exalted Plains.

Shaking her head, she lifted her skirts to replace the stiletto and asked, “So, did you find anything?”

“You could say that. There's a dead man in the little room off the outside balcony and he had this letter with him.”

Looking back up at him, Meryell frowned at the folded piece of paper he was extending towards her. She then flicked her eyes up to his. “I'm guessing he's where all of the blood trails are coming from.”

Folke just shrugged one shoulder, replying, “One of many knowing this lot.”

“You read the letter?”

“Skimmed what I could read. I left my glasses in my room back at that over decorated  _ thing _ Gaspard calls a house.”

Nodding, she straightened up as she finished smoothing the skirt of the dress back down then reached for the letter. As soon as she flipped it open and saw Celene’s name in Gaspard’s hand (recognized easily from staring at it so often with Josephine), she hissed out a breath between clenched teeth. Then she read the rest of it and growled, “The three of them are just  _ playing _ with each other. Like a game of cat and mouse for fuck’s sake.”

“Which ones the cat?” queried Folke with a smile.

Grimly, Meryell met her father's eyes again and replied, “Corypheus.  He's playing a game that the rest of them don't even know they're involved in.”

He nodded then tilted his head to the side curiously.

“And other than trickery and backstabbing being a national pastime in Orlais, how do you know that they're  _ all _ playing each other?”

Wordlessly, she reached into the top of her dress and pulled out the letter she'd found while searching the library. She'd gotten about halfway through it before she'd heard the sounds of his footsteps and came to investigate.

“A letter that Celene wrote to a Lady M,” she replied. “Talking about a male cousin provoking  _ another _ infestation.”

Folke tipped his head forward and sighed. “Gaspard.”

“Fucking Gaspard.”

“I'm really not sure how the Orlesians got it together long enough to conquer Ferelden,” he then commented with a wry shake of his head. “I'm actually surprised there are enough of them left to make up a country, to be honest.”

Snorting, Meryell suggested, “Maybe they just breed like rabbits. They did announce the Iron Bitch as a mistress to the whole court, after all.”

“Point.” Folke then frowned and asked, “Is there something strange about these statues?”

Blinking, she turned to look at what he was talking about, considering the six statues for a long moment before she turned to grin at him. “Trap? Or secret passage?”

“Both?” he suggested with a laugh before echoing her grin. “Want to find out?”

Laughing, Meryell replied, “Avoid dealing with these bleeding stuck up pricks for another few minutes and spend that time with the possibility of maiming ourselves or finding treasure with you? Why,  _ baba _ , do you really have to ask?”

Folke’s grin only widened in reply as he reached out to gently touch her cheek, murmuring, “That's my girl,” before they set off to opposite ends of the room to try and figure out what made the secret passage (or trap) work.

* * *

The remainder of the night at the Winter Palace went by without much else happening other than a strange four way conversation with three of Celene’s ladies-in-waiting when she happened to wander into the garden near the end of the evening. Of course, the message they delivered - an offer of allegiance from the Empress if they aided in getting Gaspard out of the way - wasn't at all surprising. Just another piece of the puzzle and one more example of the Orlesian national sport.

In the end, the night was officially called by a peal of three bells and Celene wished the court a good night. Which was apparently (according to Josephine) the sign that they could leave.

It was after they'd regathered their main people - those who'd slipped into the servant ranks or other places would either remain in place or find their own ways back - and were sorting out something wrong with their riding arrangements that the night took another turn.

As she was standing next to Cullen, waiting calmly for Josephine and Leliana to finish their quiet argument, she heard Gaspard call out from behind her, “Inquisitor, please, ride with me. There is no need for you to wait out in the weather while these things are sorted.”

Meryell stiffened, her shoulders snapping into a line, and she felt Cullen's hand still against her back where he'd been idly stroking his fingers in nonsense patterns.

She caught Leliana’s eye then before turning to look up at Cullen. His expression was  _ thunderous _ and his eyes were focused hard ahead of them as his jaw clenched in a fierce line.

“ _ Vhen’an _ ,” she began but he shook his head fiercely.

“I trust you, love,” he said in a mostly growled whisper. “And I will find you as soon as we get there ourselves.”

Meryell frowned before she lifted a hand to touch his chest, gently brushing her fingertips over the rows of brassy buttons on his coat that she  _ fully _ fucking intended of getting him out of later, then turned with a smile on her face. “My dear Duke,” she intoned warmly, “I couldn't dare impose myself upon you in such a way.” Cullen let his hand fall away as she did so and she silently damned politics and everything that came with it into the darkest pits of the Void.

“Impose?” repeated Gaspard with a laugh. “Inquisitor, there is no way a beautiful woman such as yourself could be an imposition to anyone.”

She heard what  _ sounded _ like Dorian’s laugh followed by a dull thump that could have been someone hitting him in the ribs as she forced her smile to stay on her face. “Well,” Meryell drawled, “however could I turn down such an invitation?” Extending her hand, she added, “Shall we then, dear Duke?”

He took her hand with all of the delicate grace of a man of his particular breeding, holding on with just the barest bit of pressure. It would have been the perfect embrace for a lady of equal breeding who actually cared about the rote and score of nobility and all that came with that life.

She just found the soft touch annoying.

Looking back at Cullen, she met his eyes for a brief moment before she turned to catch Josephine’s as she said, “I’ll see you all there.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” she replied and her tone was even but her eyes held a multitude of warnings. Meryell nodded in acknowledgment of those things then followed when she felt that gentle pressure on her hand pulling her away.

The distance to Gaspard’s carriage was a short one and the door was already being held open by...a footman, she seemed to recall the word was. It was a point in his favor that Gaspard actually helped her up into the carriage after she’d lifted her skirts just enough to find the first step with her foot. As Meryell settled down on the front side of the carriage (better to see anyone riding up from behind them out of the large window across the back, since she knew that was a common tactic of carriage assaults), he stepped inside. He seemed to accept her seating and sat down on the other side as the footman closed the door, the driver already clucking to the horses and snapping the reins.

When the carriage finally lurched forward into a roll, he smiled at her and said, “I am...pleased...that you agreed to ride with me, Inquisitor. There is a dire matter that I was hoping to speak with you about before you vanished again off to that dreadfully remote keep in the Frostbacks.”

“Oh?” she queried simply in reply while thinking that practically insulting what had been her home for most of a year since she’d nearly  _ died _ perhaps wasn’t the best way to start out this conversation he wanted to have. Putting on a fake smile, Meryell folded her hands in her lap and looked right at him. “The Inquisition will do whatever it can to aid a potential ally, Duke Gaspard.”

“Ah,” he said with a seemingly sad smile, “but you see it is not the  _ Inquisition _ I seek this evening but it's the  _ Inquisitor _ alone.”

_ This is it _ , Meryell thought dully even as she kept the fake smile plastered on her face.  _ This is where he brings up his grand fucking marriage proposal _ .

_ How many ways can I politely tell him to go pitch himself off a cliff? _

“And what,” she asked, “can the Inquisitor do for you?”

Gaspard chuckled then said, “Or perhaps I have phrased it wrong.” Leaning forward, he pressed on, “I seek the woman behind the  _ facade _ , the one who is said to unflinchingly stare down her enemies until they turn away. Who commands an army despite what are said to be the most humble of beginnings. Such a woman...oh, Inquisitor, such a woman would be a great boon for any man to have. To be able to call such a woman his own would no doubt give him the greatest of pleasures.”

For a moment she just stared at him, more than a little dumbstruck. Did that shit actually  _ work _ on some women? Were there some that actually fell for the bullshit spilling from his lips?

And did he actually believe that she was going to  _ fall for it _ ?

_ No _ , she thought to herself as she smiled serenely.  _ He doesn't. The sort of woman he speaks of wouldn't be wooed by pretty words alone. So maybe he's not so useless at this shit after all. _

“Pretty words,” she commented mildly. Then Meryell smiled thinly and added, “The sort of woman you speak of, however, wouldn't be much of an Inquisitor if she let simple honeyed words commit her to a cause. You could take that sort of person anywhere.”

_ Take it as comment and warning, Gaspard. I won't be drug around by my fucking nose. _

“She would not,” he agreed, his tone soft. “Yet perhaps such a woman would be open to a man attempting to win her favor? To prove to her that he is worthy of her attention?”

“Perhaps,” replied Meryell vaguely, thinking more of rough hands, amber-brown eyes, and nights spent shoulder-to-shoulder with a drink in hand.

He smiled beneath his mask then commented, “And if such a woman were to give her favor, it would be impolite for the man she gave it to to not allow her her...frivolities.”

She ground her teeth together at that, blood boiling at the  _ gall _ . He did not even  _ know _ Cullen, did not know what they'd been through, what they'd tenuously built between each other over long nights and mostly letters at the best of times. What they had was not  _ frivolous _ .

Almost every other relationship she'd had had been frivolous minus Camden and the first few others. She'd learned after that, to keep her heart close, to not trust pretty words and how to read the emptiness in a gesture.

Her  _ vhen’an  _ had never done that. She'd doubted how much he cared for her once (and still did on the darkest of nights when her mind wandered and took her places she didn't want to go) but that was  _ her _ failing, not his.

She controlled her face, features schooling into a serene calm behind the open lines of her mask. Smiling, she mused, “That is a generous offer, dear Duke.  _ If _ such a woman were to give her favor to such a man.”

Gaspard smiled almost warmly at that and leaned back into his seat. “I am very glad we could have this talk, Inquisitor. Very glad indeed.”

“As am I,” she agreed with a smile she didn't feel and was grateful when the rest of the ride to his manor was taken in silence.

* * *

When Cullen finally came in, Meryell was slumped in the overly large tub that was situated in a corner of their room. She'd felt bad at asking for the bath right after her arrival but the conversation with Gaspard on the ride had left her feeling  _ slimy _ in a way that she couldn't shake. At the least she'd apologized to the staff for the extra work but the three women who had brought in the steaming hot water just smiled at her and murmured in soft voices, “It's our pleasure, Inquisitor.”

She barely moved from where she laid, feet up on one end of the tub and her head braced against the other sloped side, when he entered. His footsteps were familiar now, the heavy footfalls of a man little used to stealth but light enough to be quick on his feet, so she didn't do anything but flick an ear at the noise.

That and they'd left a mixed group of Chargers, Fangs, and Inquisition soldiery guarding the whole wing they'd been allowed the use of. She'd had Rhiryd standing at her door ever since she'd entered her room and Dragos had stepped into place next to her as soon as she'd stepped out of the carriage to escort her there. Few would think twice about going up against the big former Tevinter templar and fewer still would think  _ once _ about taking on Rhiryd.

So no one that wasn't allowed was getting into her room.

“ _ Vhen’an? _ ” Meryell heard him ask, his voice soft as if he thought her asleep. She opened her eyes in response and found Cullen crouched next to the tub, one arm resting along the rim as he reached out with the other to rest his hand on her exposed shin. His expression was a mix of worry and curiosity as he asked, “Are you alright?”

Sighing, she closed her eyes again and replied wearily, “I'm already so fucking tired of politics.”

“He asked.”

“Oh, Maker's rotted left nut, did he ask. Bunch of pretty words and shitting vagueness all wrapped up into a request of something more out of me. He even gave me the ole  _ I don't mind if you keep your fuck toy _ bit.”

There was silence for a moment, in which Cullen's grip on her leg shook a little before steadying. Then he asked, “Fuck toy?”

“Bed mate, mistress...though you're not that because neither of us is married and you  _ definitely  _ aren't a woman. Paramour, maybe?” She frowned and blinked her eyes open, muttering, “There's a word for it in Rivaini I think. Zarru called  _ baba _ it once when he played the distraction with the wife of a target and actually went through with the sleeping with her part.”

Snorting, he commented, “That's because your father has no shame.” Then she felt his fingers tap lightly against her leg in a nonsense, nervous pattern before he asked, “And?”

“I was just as vague back but enough to let him think I might actually be fucking considering it.” Meryell shuddered at the memory then lifted her hand out of the water, folding her hand tightly over his. “I hated it,” she whispered.

She took in a shaking breath before she rambled on, “I  _ hated _ it. I hate these fucking  _ people _ . I hate this shitting  _ country _ . Can we just…” Her voice trailed off as she tilted her head forward to meet his eyes clearly and asked, “Can we just say  _ fuck this lot _ and go home?”

Cullen smiled in response, moving his arm resting on the tub so he could cup her cheek. “I wish it were that easy, dear thief,” he murmured.

Sighing, Meryell nodded and lifted her left hand out of the water, the green glow of the mark winking at her from the gash-not-gash that slashed across her palm. It went dormant again just as quickly but the glow was enough of a reminder:  _ she _ was the main thing standing between Corypheus and his goals. All thanks to the  _ thing _ that she didn't want and sure as shit didn't understand.

“Me too,” she whispered.

They stayed there in silence for a moment before Cullen's right hand squeezed her leg and said, “Come on, love. That water’s half freezing now and there's still two more days of this to deal with.”

Despite groaning in immediate response, she nodded and pulled her legs down as soon as he removed his hand, yelping slightly as her mostly dry legs hit the chill water. Cullen laughed as she practically bolted up and out of the tub and continued doing so even as she stood glaring at him while he wrapped a sheet around her.

“Fucker,” she hissed as he rubbed his hands up and down her arms, absorbing the water clinging to her with the fabric between their skin. When he leaned forward a moment later to press a kiss against her hair before continuing to gently brush the sheet over her skin, Meryell hummed softly in pleasure. “Fine. Maybe not a fucker.”

He snorted before he moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and letting the sheet fall over his arms to reveal her upper half. His lips brushed over the tip of her ear softly and then he whispered, “Or maybe I misheard what you said and considered it a request rather than a comment.”

Meryell let out a surprised squeak at that and Cullen laughed against her ear as he asked, “No? My mistake.”

Hissing out a breath, she spun in his arms and brought her arms up to wrap around his neck, hauling herself up so she could lock her knees around his hips to kiss him. His hands found her thighs as she moved and drew her up higher as he grunted and kissed her back with equal fervor. Meryell was vaguely aware of them moving and then Cullen sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed, settling her in his lap where she could feel the distinct bulge of his cock through his trousers. She whined in response into his mouth and tried to pull away to speak but he chased her, one hand curled around her back to hold her up and the other finding the back of her neck to keep her pulled in close. His kisses seemed all the more hungrier than usual and part of her couldn’t help but think that part of it was the crowd that had been flocking around him the entire night.

Knowing Orlesians, they hadn’t been talking to him about the fucking weather.

Giving up getting away, Meryell just spoke as she could, saying the words between kisses that were turning more and more frantic and hungry.

“You’re...wearing...too...many... _ clothes! _ ”

Cullen just snarled in response before he wrapped both arms around her, flipping them around so she was pressed to the bed and he was on top of her. He kissed her soundly, one hand groping at her bare breast, before he seemingly  _ dragged himself away _ and started working at the buttons at the top of his coat. Meryell immediately sat up and started undoing the buttons at the bottom, tugging at them one handed moments later when she got enough undone to start tugging at the laces of his trousers. When they finally got all of them open a moment later, Cullen tossed the coat away from him with a growled, “ _ Damned thing _ ,” before he tugged the long-sleeved shirt he had been wearing underneath over his head. The move immediately upset what was left of the careful coif of his hair, which had already been revealing his natural unruly curls.

“Boots,” she commented mildly while she plucked her fingers at his smallclothes. He hitched a breath in response before he toed them off in quick turn and immediately shucked his pants, smallclothes, and socks after. Then he was pushing her back down onto the bed and stretching out over her, keeping most of his weight off of her by bracing on his elbows and forearms. When he then just sat there, looking down at her, she lifted a hand to cup his cheek and asked, “What are you thinking,  _ vhen’an _ ?”

“That there’s a sheet in the way,” he replied before he reached down between them, trying to tug the material out from around her but not managing it at all. When Cullen finally groaned and rolled over, seemingly given up on getting her loose, Meryell laughed and kicked her legs free of the sheet after some minor struggling before tossing it off the side of the bed.

She then moved to lie the proper way on the bed instead of across it, slowly inching her way up towards the pillows, and called down to him, “ _ Vhen’an _ .” As his head turned towards her, she smiled and slowly slid a hand down across her belly before teasingly letting her fingers delve into the dark curls between her legs. Expelling a breathy little sigh, Meryell added, “I guess I’ll just have to take care of myself all on my lonesome since you seem so  _ tired  _ of a sudden.”

Cullen was abruptly up at that, practically launching himself up the bed to land next to her with a growl as he closed his hand over hers. His fingers joined her as he kissed her before he pulled away to hiss, “You are an  _ evil _ woman.”

“Mmm,” she hummed in response, seeking out his lips again. “You should punish me for being so cruel.”

“I’m not sure what I intend to do to you is  _ punishment _ ,” he replied.

Meryell smiled against his mouth before she kissed his scar and whispered, “Let’s find out.” He laughed in reply before following when she dragged him down on top of her and after that there were no thoughts of Orlais or handsy nobles or fucking proposals of marriages of convenience or even Corypheus.

There was only her and him, just the way it should be.

* * *

“They’re dying, they’re dying. All plans torn asunder, fluttering down like the flower petals in the garden. Dying. All dying.”

Meryell jerked awake, every sense screaming  _ intruder _ , and she reached for the knife she always kept under her pillow whenever or wherever she was. Next to her she felt Cullen stir as well, his body and mind as keyed to sensing danger as hers was. As she twisted around to sit up from where she’d been laying on her belly, knife in hand, she realized just  _ who _ their intruder was.

“Cole,” she hissed, confused and angry, “what the fuck?”

“Cole?” repeated Cullen as she turned her head to look at him, finding him already upright with a short sword in his hand. “Maker’s breath.”

The boy lifted his head from where he crouched in the dark at the end of the bed, Meryell only able to see him by the blessing of elven night vision. His face seemed paler than usual as he gasped, “The elves went into the wing one by one. To do their job. To seek. To find. To ferret out the secrets and the lies and every little thing to be used and bring them all back, safe and sound. They never came back. They never  _ will _ come back.”

He held out something then - a piece of paper - and Meryell reached out to take it. His pale eyes were so round in the dark as he said, “ _ Asa’ma’lin _ , the wolf is in the halla pen,” and then he was gone.

And she forced herself to  _ breathe _ because that was  _ Pod _ . Pod, who was supposed to have made his way in amongst the servants in the Winter Palace. Who was, at this very moment, supposed to be investigating to see what he could find amongst them alongside Sera in what was meant to be the most  _ safe _ time to do so.

“Light,” she managed to croak and, bless him, Cullen didn’t ask. He just rose from the bed and walked across the room to where she knew the table was that he was using currently as his desk, lighting a candle before he came back to settle on the edge of the bed. She scooted over to fold herself against his side as he held up the candle and they read the parchment that Cole had given her together.

“Elves disappearing,” he murmured, wrapping his arm around her. “Them calling for help. Shit.”

Meryell felt her hand shake and breathed, “Sera’s there, Cullen. And Pod. I can’t...I  _ can’t _ let anything happen to them because I put them there.”

He let out a breath then pressed a kiss to her forehead before he whispered, “Go, love. I’ll rouse Leliana and Josephine. You just get Folke and  _ go _ . I'll send someone else after you.”

She didn’t say thank you. Didn’t have to.

Meryell merely tilted her chin up to kiss him and then bolted across the room for her armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to keep up to date on what's going on better than just waiting for AO3 updates, here's how:
> 
> [@terioncalling](https://twitter.com/terioncalling) \- My main twitter. It largely pulls from my tumblr, so it's a jumble of nonsense, political commentary, reblogged, fandom shit, and occasionally what I'm listening to at any random point on Spotify.
> 
> [@terionwrites](https://twitter.com/terionwrites) \- My brand spanking new twitter account from which I intend to reblog chapters, possibly stories I like, random other writing stuff, and announcements like this in the future. So basically the main thing to follow if you wanna know why there's been no update or see ramblings about my stories.
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> [Power in Stories](http://stories.terion.net/) \- My wordpress blog on my site. Mostly for a secondary reading point or if you want to see some of the original stuff I post (since I haven't yet posted it here and may not).


	48. “How did you deal with it, with the waiting? After you two were...together?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell returns safely with the Pod and Sera but there are things going on in the servant's quarters of the Winter Palace that are beyond the pale. So much so that Folke has a bad feeling about the whole thing...and the Fangs always listen when Folke has a bad feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up! You may not have gotten and update for Chapter 47 actually getting posted (because I merely replaced the fake chapter I put up to not my delay with the actual chapter) so if you're getting the email update for this new chapter, check back to make sure that you read 47! If you're caught up, plunge ahead and enjoy!

He hated waiting.

Always had.

Oh, he'd been disciplined and never fidgeted when he had to stand watch. Nor when he'd had to spend long hours keeping his eyes on nothing but the mages under his charge.

In the Tower, he'd read over their shoulders. Their reading, their writing, doodles made in the corners of parchment filled with potion ingredients and spell notes, all of it filled the silent monotony of his days.

In Kirkwall, the silence had been filled with the heavy song of lyrium and the echo of bloody memories that he couldn't quite touch but still recalled. He'd kept his screams and nightmares to his room and done his duty as he thought (at the time) a templar should.

Now he paced in his and Meryell's temporary room in the wee hours of the morning, unable to keep still. His hands shook with a mix of nervous energy and withdrawal, so he kept them moving by rolling his brother's coin between first the fingers of one hand and then the other. The fact that he was feeling withdrawal symptoms despite having taken a dose the previous morning would have been worrying if Gil hadn't already warned him that the diluted amount he was on cobbled with stress could briefly exacerbate its signs.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor like that,” came a comment from the open door and Cullen looked up to see Leliana leaning against the frame.

“Is there news?” he asked, not stopping in his movement at all.

There was silence in response and he sighed before briefly letting his chin fall against his chest. “Of course not,” he muttered. “It can never be that easy.”

Leliana let out a small, slightly bitter sounding laugh before asking, “Would you like reassurance? I could tell you that she will be fine, that Folke is with her and that you sent two rather capable rogues after her.”

Cullen lifted his head to look at her then and said, “It would just be empty reassurance.”

“So it would.”

There was silence for a long span of moments then, with her just there in the doorway and he continuing his pacing inside the room. He felt a question welling up inside of him, one for her alone, but he didn’t know if he dared ask it. They were mere colleagues at best, allies in a single cause.

They were not _friends_.

When he reached the table he was using for a temporary desk, Cullen stopped instead of turning back to continue his pacing. Placing both hands flat on the table with the coin underneath his left, he leaned forward to stare at the frosted panes of the windows and softly said, “May I ask you a question, Leliana?”

“I have told you everything that I know of what’s going on.”

He didn’t believe _that_ for a second because their spymaster always kept a few moves back for later use. Shaking his head, he added, “It’s personal. It could be...painful.”

“For you?” she queried.

“For _you_ ,” he replied.

She was quiet for a long span of breaths that was almost painful in that the silence just made his nervousness at asking the question all the worse. Then he heard her footfalls cross the floor, heels softly hitting the marble or whatever other fancy material made up the floors in Gaspard’s manor, and turned his head as she came to stand beside him.

He could read a face and body language on a battlefield but Cullen had no knowledge of how to read Leliana.

They stood like that for a moment before she softly said, “You want to ask about Amell.”

“I know you didn’t go everywhere together,” he answered just as softly. Cullen then looked away, back towards the window, as he went on, “I...I read some of the accounts of those who met you all during the Blight while I was in Kirkwall as well as here. Since I didn’t witness any of it myself. Alistair and I may have also had a conversation or two since he arrived in Skyhold.”

“And what is your question, Cullen?”

He frowned, gnawing at his lower lip for a moment, before he asked, “How did you deal with it, with the waiting? After you two were...together?”

Leliana hummed softly in response before drifting back into silence again. They stood like that for what felt like a whole turn of a glass before she began with a quiet, “I was much younger then.”

Chuckling, Cullen noted, “I think we were all younger, Leliana. Though you’ve perhaps weathered it the best.”

That brought a bit of a chuckle out of her. “Mmm, I am not certain of that, Commander,” she replied with a small smile. “I have heard that there have always been quite a few ladies following you around with soft sighs and love in their eyes.”

He felt the back of his neck immediately heat up and knew she saw it because he was just dressed in a simple tunic and trousers since he couldn’t go rushing off into the night in his own heavy armor. Blessedly, she didn’t say anything.

Instead, Leliana’s smile faded and she said, “I dealt with waiting well enough, I suppose. There was always something usually to be done about our camp; either cooking or securing Alistair’s tent because he hadn’t tied the knots tight enough. Often, though, I would sit with Wynne when she didn’t accompany him and talk.”

“I always worried, however,” she went on after a brief pause. He turned his head slightly away from the window to look at her, finding a stark _sadness_ in her face at that moment.

And Cullen knew that she _let him_ see it.

“Would this be the day he came back bloodied? Broken? Or would it be the day that he didn’t come back at all?” Leliana shook her head before adding, “There was always the chance that he or Alistair would fall and leave us with no Wardens, just a handful of outcasts alone with little contacts to speak of and few allies. Not to mention, as he often reminded me, that demons are always lurking in the Fade, just waiting for a mage to slip up.”

Frowning, because he’d _stood_ at Calder Amell’s Harrowing, had been the one assigned to hold the sword above him as he’d been sent into the Fade, Cullen asked, “Was he hounded by them more than the other mages? I’m certain Wynne was quite used to fending them off, she was always one of the more capable Enchanters, but you had that apostate as well.”

For some reason his comment brought a bright laugh out of her.

“Morrigan _laughed_ at demons. She treated them with such disdain, but what else would someone raised by a woman who claimed to be Flemeth herself be like?” Leliana shook her head then and continued, “I don’t believe he was pursued by them more often than the rest. He was just...always thoughtful like that. He always told me what he was doing, even when he knew I would disagree.”

“An honest man.”

She smiled. “Perhaps _too_ honest. I know a great deal of Warden secrets that I should not because of that habit.”

Chuckling, Cullen said, “Your secret is safe with me.”

That actually brought a smile out of Leliana then she sobered as she went on, “He asked me to not accompany him to Fort Drakon at the end.” It seemed like all of the air was sucked out of the room at those words because everyone knew what had happened at the end of the Fifth Blight. They knew _who_ had ended it.

“There was no time to worry then as we defended the city from the horde,” she said, her voice a near whisper. “There was only the next arrow nocked in my bow and where it would land in the next darkspawn. We - Sten, Zevran, Oghren, and I - did not even know what had happened in that battle until we climbed the heights of Fort Drakon with everyone else to see.”

He knew this next part but if she wanted to continue he wouldn’t stop her. Leliana so rarely shared things, even with Josephine.

She just stood there for a moment before she turned to him and said firmly, “I learned during the Blight that there is never any reassurance that those we love will return to us, Cullen. Yet we must have faith that they will, if only to survive through the moments.”

Cullen fully turned to regard her as well and asked, “And if they don’t?”

Leliana’s smile was bitter but warm as she answered, “We pick up the pieces and move on as best we can. That is, truthfully, the only thing that can be done. To do anything less is to give into that yawning maw in our chest and die.” She shook her head before continuing to speak. “Calder did not want such a thing for me, which is why he didn’t ask me to accompany him, I think. He didn’t want me to see him fall because I think he intended it to be him that took that blow from the moment we left Redcliffe. I can only assume that Meryell would want you to do the same if that is the way the Maker guides her path.”

He was just thinking _Then I will pray all the harder that he does not_ when Cullen heard a loud cough from the doorway and Meryell’s voice asked, “You two fucking gossiping about me while I’m not around? I _knew_ that’s what you shits did every time I’m gone.”

Turning quickly to face the door, he was starting across the room before he quite realized he was making the move and stilled himself just as he reached out towards her. Instead he drew himself up and asked, “It went well?”

Meryell grimaced in reply and that was when he noticed that there was blood on her leathers. She didn’t appear to be bleeding herself but there was no indication that it was from a possibly encountered enemy either. Folke had been with her and they had sent Hart from her company and Chance from the Chargers’ after her since they’d been the only two rogues awake and on duty who weren’t assigned to the roofs, so it could be any of theirs. Pod and Sera were also options since they’d been going in after them.

“Well enough,” she replied darkly. “We’re all back in one piece but... _shit_ . The section of the servants quarters they were in in the Palace was a bloodbath. Elves and humans dead with no apparent regard to whether they were friend or foe and they didn’t die _pretty_.”

Leliana stepped forward then and asked, “Pod and Sera did not see who the culprits were?”

“They were masked and those two hid in the rafters of a small kitchen when shit started going down. There were too many of them to fight and they'd already been spotted. I guess that's why they cut out, fear of being discovered.” Meryell huffed out a tired breath and he wanted nothing more than to just tell her they could go back to bed instead of the inevitable meeting that was going to be next. “We didn’t even see anyone but the dead when we were down there. Which is where the blood’s from, by the way; we moved some of the bodies that were in danger of getting spotted. Whoever it was cleared out, though we didn’t go beyond finding them and getting them out. Not without knowing more and going in with an actual team that’s more than rogues.”

“And a mage,” pointed out Cullen, which brought a small smile out of the elf.

She lifted a hand to point at him as she said, “ _Baba_ will be whatever the fuck he wants or needs to be when the occasion calls for it and you well know it.” Then Meryell turned back to Leliana and said, “Get everyone up that’s not already up. If we don’t sort this shit quick, there’s going to be no Maker damned way we finish this piss pot mess of a fucking ball without everything going sideways.”

The spymaster just nodded and left at a brisk pace, leaving the two of them alone. Cullen just looked at her for a long moment before he finally reached out to take her hand and pulled her into the room, firmly shutting the door behind her. He wanted nothing more than to hug her but the blood on her leathers still gleamed wetly, so he instead rested his hands on her shoulders and bent to kiss her forehead.

“Thank the Maker you’re safe,” he murmured, aware that his voice was shaking slightly.

“Had you worried, did I?” she asked, her tone trying to be bright but obviously showing the strain. He felt her hands gently touch his chest and then she let out a rattling sigh, shoulders shaking under his hands.

Cullen just replied, “I always worry when you’re gone. As Folke has told me, you’re just apt to get yourself into trouble on your own.”

“Shitheel.”

He snorted then asked, “Are you alright, _vhen’an_?”

Meryell slowly shook her head then tilted her chin up so she could look at him. There were obvious tears at the corners of her eyes but her gaze itself was _fierce_ and _furious_.

“No,” she replied and there was sudden steel in her tone. “But I’ll be better when I can put a knife into whatever son of a bitch is behind this working for Corypheus.”

“We’ll find them,” assured Cullen firmly. He then looked down at her again and said, “Let’s get you out of these leathers and have someone clean them up. I get the feeling that you’re going to need them tonight.”

“Can’t I just attend tonight in them instead of a dress then?” whined Meryell as she started to reach for buckles and he dropped to a knee to work at her boots. “Also that’s a nice position for you to be in.”

Snorting, he glanced up at her before he turned back to his task, saying, “Back not even a turn of a glass and already plotting how to next end up in bed?” To his own credit, he didn't even feel himself blushing at the comment like he might have a year or more back.

Cullen felt her hand sliding into his hair, leather chasing skin as she wove her fingers into his curls. And then he _did_ blush as she made a _filthy_ thrusting gesture towards him with her hips and purred, “I'm always thinking about you naked nowadays, _vhen’an_.”

“Maker's breath,” he murmured, ducking his head to focus on her boots. As he finally finished with one and tapped on her knee to indicate she lift her leg, Cullen asked, “What am I going to do with you, dear thief?”

“If I had my way, fuck me into the damn wall after I get this shit off.”

He had to admit, the visual of that was...interesting. She was light enough that he probably could do it with ease... _fuck_.

Now she had _him_ thinking about it and his cock was taking interest.

“ _Love_ ,” he growled as he moved to her other boot.

Meryell just laughed brightly and replied, “ _Vin, vhen’an?_ ”

“You're terrible.”

“And?” she drawled, drawing out the ‘a’ as she finally got free of her pauldrons and chest piece, shoving both up over her head to drop unceremoniously to the floor. He straightened up then, leaving her other boot mostly undone, and clasped his hands around her hips. Then he slid his hands upward, underneath the now damp with sweat tunic she'd thrown on before donning her armor, and touched her bare skin. She let her head loll back in response, a low growl of contentment coming from her before she chuckled. “I see you've got ideas too,” she noted.

“Around you?” he replied with a smile. “Always, _vhen’an_. Unfortunately they'll have to wait.”

“Fucking work.”

“Fucking work indeed,” he agreed before removing his hands, turning his attention back to her boot. Cullen quickly finishing undoing it and stood up after she'd stepped out of it. He then pulled her in close with one hand while tilting her chin up with the other so he could kiss her softly. “To work?”

Meryell smiled softly at what all of the ladies now joked was his trademark statement in the war room and pecked his scar with a kiss, murmuring, “To work.” Then, more strongly, “Let's get this son of a bitch.”

Nodding, he assured, “We will, love. We will.”

* * *

“If servants are dead, we _must_ inform the Empress,” insisted Josephine after Meryell and those who had gone with her had relayed what had happened. “If only of the fact that it has occurred, not the involvement of Corypheus.”

“You mean let her think it was Briala or Gaspard,” Meryell noted grimly and Cullen moved his hand from where it had been braced behind her on the table they were leaning against to rest on her back. The touch seemed to strike some cord because she sighed and nodded several times before speaking again. “Because better to think it's one of the demons she knows than a new one coming up to eat her face. Right.”

“Not to mention,” pointed out Leliana, “that we are talking about cleaning up the servants quarters and replacing those who were killed with our own to make it seem all is still well.”

“The last thing you need in a job is panic amongst the sheep. It just ruins your job as the wolf,” Folke said sagely and it sounded like a much used quote. Cullen immediately noted that all of the Fangs present - Meryell, Arnald, Pod, and Hart - rolled their eyes in response to it.

The Captain himself chuckled before saying wryly, “Quoting Noralt at us now, mage?”

“As the boot fits, like he used to say,” replied the hedge mage with a crooked grin. Folke then turned starkly sober, the x-shaped scar on his cheek standing out harshly, as he added, “We need to be careful moving on. What happened down there...I've seen shit like that before.”

Cullen noticed his eyes flicked towards Meryell then the mage was ducking his head as he said bitterly, “I've _made_ bodies like that before.” She stiffened and leaned forward, as if she was about to go to him but Cullen stilled her by moving his hand briefly to her shoulder. As she turned her face up to him, eyes a little angry, he just shook his head slightly.

He knew that bitter tone in the older man's voice. As good as Meryell's intentions were to likely remind him that he was a different man now, the past still rankled. His own wasn't even half as far away as Folke's and sometimes it seemed like the mage’s scars were as fresh as his own sometimes felt.

“None of this lot know,” the man went on, gesturing towards the three elves, “but the Captain does. He served with me before we voted him to lead all of us shits.” Arnald just nodded sagely as Folke finished, “We've both left scenes like that before. Difference is, we regretted it then. We were doing our jobs, even if we didn't care the sort of carnage we left. _This lot_ just don't give two shits.”

Leliana straightened up from where she'd been leaning against the bedpost of the room they had convened in (Josephine’s), her eyes sharply narrowed. “You speak as if you know. With certainty.”

The hedge mage grunted before saying, “I do, Nightingale.”

“You found something?” queried Varric, his voice even and level. An obvious attempt by the dwarf to keep some peace since it looked like Leliana was veering away from calm. Cullen nodded to him and Varric just shrugged before turning his eyes back to Folke. “Don't leave us in suspense, Scar.”

“Less found and more...felt.”

Arnald abruptly sat up straight, which made Cullen pay even more rapt attention than he had been. “A wyrding?” the man asked and he frowned at the sound of it. The word itself wasn't necessarily familiar but the sound of it was. It certainly wasn't Orlesian, that he knew.

“A wyrding!” repeated Dorian, suddenly sitting up from where he'd been lounging across a chair, his legs crossed over an arm. “It's from an old word for _fate_ , yes? I read about such things in Tevinter, where a mage might know the future?”

“It's more feeling than knowing and it sure as all Void isn't reliable,” Folke replied darkly. He then sighed and leaned forward, propping his arms on his knees, as he went on, “My father called it a _Wilds wyrding_. He was a farmer, a simple man, but he'd grown up in a village just this side of being Ferelden and not Chasind. Secluded enough that folks there held on a lot more to old ways despite the Chantry influence. My mother, on the other hand, was Chasind through and through and she said it was a gift of the gods. Which, it saved our lives from templars once or twice when I was small, so I suppose it was.”

“You say it isn't reliable,” Leliana noted firmly and Cullen cut his eyes over to her.

“Meaning it doesn't always show up when things go to shit. Something bad _happens_ every time I feel it though.”

“What _does_ it feel like?” asked Dorian, interrupting whatever else the spymaster had been opening her mouth to say. He merely smiled at her in apology and said, “I'm sorry, this is absolutely fascinating. I wasn't aware that wyrdings actually existed!”

Folke chuckled and grinned at Leliana as he turned his head towards the other mage. “Our Fade specialist, Miriam, suspects I'm a bit Fade-touched and that that's the reason for it. As for what it feels like...you know how your can feel your mana lessening as you use it? How it's a certain area?” When Dorian nodded, he went on, “I feel it there. I'm not certain how to describe it other than an ache.”

“ _Fascinating_. How…” Dorian abruptly trailed off as the Iron Bull coughed, smiling apologetically. “Sorry. Folke, may I…?”

“We'll talk later, Sparkler,” the hedge mage replied and Cullen almost groaned. Varric’s nicknames seemed to have taken hold amongst _both_ sets of mercenaries (though Meryell remained the exception as mostly _Meryell_ and _Inquisitor_ or _Boss_ ) but he supposed that was apt given that he'd noticed most of them didn't go by their real names. Meryell, Arnald, and Folke he knew were exceptions. Pod he knew enough about to know it was short for something else and Hart was a mystery even to Meryell. As she'd told him, _Captain doesn't care what you fucking call yourself, so long as you can play by the rules and answer to it_ . _Lots of us left our past behind and that meant names too._

Folke then looked at Leliana and said, “You might not believe me, _el'u’verelan_ , but my feelings aren’t wrong that things will get bad if we aren’t careful. I felt it as soon as we got there and saw the bodies. _Something_ is going to happen. I don’t know what but I’ll bet you my company commission that it’ll be some serious shit. And it’ll involve whoever killed those servants.”

Leliana frowned as she asked, “Can you provide an example of it being accurate? One of these feelings?” She sounded skeptical but Cullen could understand that idea. He was a little skeptical himself but Meryell and Arnald seemed to believe it wholeheartedly.

He could trust that and that Folke was telling the truth.

“He knew a job in Jader was going to go ass end up right after I joined six years ago,” supplied Hart. Cullen hadn't spoken to her much, so he was a little surprised when her Dalish lilt so strongly resembled those of the clan that had lingered outside of Kirkwall. He'd just so happened to have spoken with them once during one of the years there while chasing an apostate (not that they had helped, of course) and their accents had been just so different from anything he'd ever heard that they'd stuck with him. He wondered, though, what had made her leave without earning her facial markings that were common among the Dalish.

Pod nodded and looped his arm over her narrow shoulders as he said, “I can confirm that one. Was on that job myself.”

Leliana narrowed her eyes at them then asked, “Captain?” as she turned to look at Arnald. The older man just arched his eyebrows at her and spread his hands wide.

“I've seen far too many of Folke's feeling come true to account them all,” he replied. “He was already in the company when I joined and had been for...how long?”

Cullen followed Arnald’s gaze over to the hedge mage as the latter shrugged and replied, “I was thirteen, fourteen summers when I joined? I'd had my magic for seven years before then, I know. And I'd already served three when you signed on.”

“Thirteen?” repeated Cassandra, sounding a little stunned. Cullen frowned as he glanced towards her because _he_ had joined the templars at thirteen and had been considered an _old_ recruit. “Is that not young for a mercenary company?”

Folke snorted and replied, “Old Man didn't care. Captain Laurens was of the opinion that if you were old enough to be a brave shit and kick templars in the shins and fuck whoever you could convince into bed, you were old enough to serve.”

“ _Baba_ ,” scolded Meryell, sounding more amused than anything, “you've never told me that story.”

“Because I was a little _shit_ and didn't want you taking after me anymore than you already do,” replied the older man with a broad smile and a wink. Cullen laughed with the Fangs and everyone else at the idea that Folke could _stop_ his adoptive daughter from doing whatever she wanted to do.

Arnald coughed pointedly, bringing the laughter back down, and then said, “My asking was to make a point. He'd been in for three years longer than I had and Laurens’ second, Noralt, who served as mine as well until he died, was certain to tell everyone that when Folke said something was wrong _you fucking listened_.”

Chuckling to himself, he went on, “I thought the man was a bit mad for trusting a practical child at the time. Then Folke warned us off a job and we heard weeks later that the other company that had taken it was lost to a man. Half a year after that he had us take another route on a job and we ended up ambushing a group of guards who had been on the other side of the door he'd told us not to take. Those are the first two I remember but there are a hundred more.”

Cullen turned to watch Leliana’s face as the Captain finished with, “I've trusted him with a sword at my back for many years, Nightingale. I'd recommend you listen when he says he knows a thing.” Leliana’s face was unreadable and he found his breath caught in his throat as her lips pursed.

Then she asked, “What was the last one,” and it was like the air was sapped out of the room.

Arnald stiffened in his seat, Pod and Hart leaned further into each other, Folke's face went dead white, and Meryell’s back underneath his hand _snapped_ into a straight line. A single shiver rippled down her back and Cullen _knew_ that whatever this was would prove Folke's words true.

The hedge mage’s voice was choked with emotion as he answered, “Poppet’s last job.”

Silence filled the room for a long moment before Josephine broke it with very quiet _Oh_ that was followed by Sera’s gruff, “So you thought Quiz was all sorts of dead? Shite, that’s rough.”

Folke laughed brokenly, shaking his head several times before he managed to say, “Rough doesn’t even remotely cover it, Buttercup.” He then looked towards them and Cullen felt the pain in the man’s face like a physical blow. Honestly he couldn’t imagine having that sort of ability and sometimes just _knowing_ something was going to happen. Didn’t think he would want such a thing ever, especially not in the idea that he might someday _know_ something might happen to someone he loved and have to live with the idea that he had _let them go_ when something did.

That time when Meryell moved to go towards her father, he didn’t even attempt to stop her. For all they felt for each other, all of the love that he knew they each held, it was all _nothing_ in the wake of the love she had for Folke. She would probably shank him if he had tried.

Instead he smiled as she settled into her father's lap, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tightly as the mage pulled her close and tucked his head underneath her chin. Folke's shoulders shook and that was when Cullen respectfully turned his face away. The mage had always given him the courtesy of being there but not watching him through the variety of breakdowns he'd had since the lyrium attack. He could do no less than give the other man the same respect.

“Leliana?” he queried, drawing the spymaster’s attention to him. “Are you satisfied?”

He watched her gaze flick back towards the entwined pair and then those hard blue eyes were back on him. Leliana nodded just slightly and answered, “That is... _unquestionable_ confirmation of his ability. He couldn't have known about what would happen at the Conclave.” Then her gaze softened just a hair as she added, “And I do not believe he would have knowingly put his daughter into such danger.”

There seemed to be a sigh of relief around the room at that (likely because their spymaster was the _hardest_ to convince out of any of them) and then Varric asked, “So now what?”

Josephine stood up, smoothing her hands down over her skirts, and replied, “Now I go seek the earliest audience with the Empress. If we are to help keep the peace, we must get her permission to move forward.” She then frowned and began, “Inquisitor…”

“Whatever you need to do, Josephine, you fucking do it,” replied Meryell, her tone hard. She opened her eyes and turned her head to face the Antivan, never moving her chin from its contact with Folke's head. “Full Inquisitorial blessing. I trust you. Get shit done so we can fuck these sons of bitches over.”

Cullen watched their ambassador’s normally gentle features harden and the thin smile that graced her face a moment later wouldn't have been out of place on Leliana’s.  It was yet another reminder that Josephine Montilyet had once been a bard herself and played the most civil and yet _vicious_ hand of Wicked Grace. The latter was a sure reflection of the fact that she could smile and pretend to deal with others with kid gloves that hid the true unflinching iron underneath.

Josephine inclined her head sharply, saying, “I will see it done, Inquisitor. Leliana, come with me, please.”

“Of course, Josie.”

His fellow advisors left the room and in the silence that followed Sera yawned in a deliberately loud fashion. The little elf stood up, stretching in a way that made the very _short_ shift she had changed into ride up almost high enough to be scandalous, and asked loudly, “Can we go back to bed now?”

Blackwall chuckled in response from where he'd been lurking silently in one corner of the room - Cullen had noticed he had already been there when everyone else had started to arrive - before saying, “Let's see if we need to know anything else first, Fuzzhead.”

“You ruin all the fun, Beardy.”

“Swears?” queried Varric softly, looking to where Meryell still sat curled around Folke. Neither of them moved an inch but her eyes were still open and fully aware. The dwarf noticed and asked, “What are we doing now, sweetheart?”

She sighed in response and Cullen knew she was feeling the weight of Inquisitor again and hating it. Meryell moved through it, though, and replied, “We're in a waiting game now to see what's what. Get some fucking sleep while you all can.”

She sighed bitterly as she added in a lower tone, “I get the feeling tonight we're going to have to all be on our toes. Elsewise we're liable to lose our damned heads.”

“I dunno, Boss,” the Iron Bull rumbled as he stood up with a wry smile. “Could be fun to not be so on our toes. It's been awhile since someone tried to take my head.”

Dorian snorted and grumbled, “That's because you're a good three heads taller than any sane human wants to be, you big ox.” He then rose, rolling his shoulders, then said, “Don't you worry, darling. You've got _me_ , after all.”

Cullen distinctly heard Madame Vivienne scoff as she left (he'd noticed more and more that she seemed to have quite the lack of respect for the non-Circle mages) but Meryell _smiled_ in response. She freed a hand to reach out towards the Tevinter mage and their fingers entwined for a brief moment as she breathed, “Wouldn't have any other overly attractive Tevinter at my back over you, Dorian.”

“Of course not, darling, do you know how hard it is to _find_ someone more attractive than me?” Dorian winked at her in that overly flirtatious way of his then left the room, a chuckling Iron Bull trailing behind him. The one Charger who'd been involved in their rescue, a lithe little young man who went only by Chance and hadn't spoken a word except to agree with what they'd seen, followed them out.

“Y’alright there, Quiz?” asked Sera then, the younger elf looking worried while trying not to. She folded both hands behind her, fiddling her thumbs together, and then murmured, “Yer pa doesn't look so good either,” as she rocked back and forth on her heels.

Cullen noticed that Blackwall had moved over next to the little archer and smiled. They took care of each other in an odd way that reminded him of a pair of siblings. It made him miss his own but what would he share with them now, so long after he'd left them?

Meryell smiled and he fixated on that instead of thoughts of the siblings he'd barely kept in touch with. “We'll be alright, Sera,” she answered softly. “Just...rough fucking night, yeah?”

That brought a haunted look to Sera’s face as she nodded, softly agreeing, “Yeah.” Then she held up both hands in fists in front of her, teeth bared, and hissed, “We'll get the shits though, won't we, Quiz? Every last one of the fuckers. Kill ‘em dead for what they've done.”

“Every Maker damned one “ agreed Meryell with a flinty look in her eye.

Sera nodded sharply at that, flashed a thumbs up, and then bolted out of the room. Blackwall sighed, rolling his eyes, then plodded off after her, calling out down the hallway, “Get some actual sleep, you daft git!”

“Sod off!” came Sera’s muffled voice back, causing those of them that were left to chuckle.

Solas said nothing as he left, merely giving Meryell a respectful nod which she returned (though his eyes lingered on Folke for a disturbingly long moment). Cassandra merely stood in front of them and leaned down to stare Meryell in the eye, something silent passing between them as both women nodded, before she left. Varric patted Meryell's knee as he passed them, smiling kindly, and also thumped Folke's back with a gruff sounding, “Take it easy, Scar,” that actually got a grunt in response from the hedge mage.

Pod and Hart left with their arms around each other, both of them nodding towards Meryell and Folke. After they left it was just him, Meryell, Folke, and Arnald.

Or so he thought until he suddenly turned back towards Meryell and Folke from glancing worriedly at their Captain to find Cole crouched by them.

“The pain was an endless wound, stuffed with ragged bits to quell the blood. Yet all it did was turn foul and fester, a reminder of failure and fate,” murmured the boy. Cullen watched him reach up and touch Folke's knee before he went on, “It got better when he knew he was wrong but the fear lingers, lasting, flickering like the light Mother used to leave in the window to find home. He fears it happening again.”

“Cole,” Meryell intoned sharply.

The boy’s narrow shoulders flinched and he bobbed his head before saying, “That was rude. I...I am sorry, Folke.”

The hedge mage snorted and turned his head just slightly, opening one eye as he replied, “It’s not like none of that’s fucking true, lad.”

“ _Baba_ ,” groaned Meryell immediately after that, closing her eyes and dropping her forehead to rest against her father’s head. “I’m trying to teach Cole _manners_.”

“ _Manners?_ ” Folke exclaimed, pulling away from her for the first time since she’d left Cullen’s side to go to him. He straightened up, looking between her and Cole for a moment, before he leaned down towards the boy and rapped his knuckles against the wide brim of his hat. “Now listen up, lad. Poppet has the best of intentions but you had best not follow _everything_ she says...or that you feel, whatever it is you do.”

“No,” Cole replied. “She’s mostly been teaching me when not to listen. Because it’s rude. Like when she thinks of Cullen, all warm hands and mouth.” He paused and tilted his head up at Meryell, added, “But...I don’t understand. _Why_ do you want him to pin you to a wall? Is that not what Varric does with his pages to let the ink dry?”

Meryell let out an embarrassed squeak in response, hiding her face behind Folke’s, and Cullen tipped his head up towards the ceiling so he didn’t have to look Folke or Arnald in the eye. He could feel his cheeks and neck burning in equal embarrassment to his lover as he said, “That...that is, uh, two _very_ different things, Cole. One of which shouldn’t be talked about in public.”

“But they are safe.”

“Doesn’t matter, _da’lath’in_ ,” murmured Meryell.

Folke laughed and reached up to ruffle her hair, saying, “You know I don’t care, Poppet. And the Captain’s _Orlesian._ ”

Arnald just snorted and said, “Just because I’m Orlesian doesn’t mean that I’m one of that lot that throw themselves into as much cunt or cock as they can, Folke. I assume, however, that you’re talking about my not getting embarrassed by things of a sexual nature.”

“That’s the one, Captain.”

The older man just snorted and Cullen then felt a fist thump his shoulder. He turned his head just enough where he could see Arnald’s smile before he mouthed, _You’re fine_ . Then the Captain clapped his hands together and said, “Well then, with that I think I’m going to take myself back to bed. _Bonne nuit_ , my friends. You should do the same.”

Arnald then pause before he walked out and made a brief gesture at Cole. “Come along, lad. You can't help here no matter how you try.”

“I... “

“Cole,” Cullen pressed softly, drawing the boy’s attention towards him. When he saw those wide blue eyes blinking at him from under the wide hat, he added, “There's some hurts that only time and the people you love can try to heal.”

Cole just blinked at him then bowed his head as he asked, “Like your nightmares?”

He flinched at the so open mention despite the fact that everyone in the room knew already but nodded in reply. “Like my nightmares,” Cullen agreed a moment later.

The boy-spirit seemed to accept that and stood up, nodding slightly as he did so. Then he turned back towards Folke and said firmly, “I wouldn't let it happen,” before vanishing entirely.

For a moment there was silence and then Folke asked, “What kind of spirit did Chuckles think he was?”

“Compassion,” replied Cullen. “It's why he wants to help from what I was told.”

The hedge mage nodded at that, before saying, “Keep it up, girlie. Having Compassion on your side isn't a thing to take lightly. They're rare spirits.”

“I've never taken Cole lightly, _baba_.” Meryell then looked up at Arnald and smiled, “Goodnight, Captain.”

Arnald snorted in response and said, “Get some sleep you three.” He left then, leaving them alone in Josephine’s room and Cullen lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck as an awkward feeling silence descended.

Folke immediately snorted and Cullen turned to look at him as the man swatted at Meryell's leg. She flicked her ears and grumbled a curse in a language he didn't know - and it certainly wasn't Elven - and slid off his lap. As she moved back across the room and slid her hand into Cullen's free one, the mage said, “You know I don't care what you two get up to in your own time, _isha’len_.”

“That doesn't negate the embarrassment at all, Folke,” he replied, squeezing Meryell's hand. Running his hand up into his hair, feeling the curls briefly tangle around his fingertips, he let out a breath before he looked down at the woman at his side. She smiled brightly up at him - not quite that one he'd sworn to bring out more but it was one of such _contentment_ and _happiness_ that it nearly stole his breath that _he_ inspired it - and moved to lean against his shoulder. Smiling back sheepishly, Cullen flicked his eyes at Folke and added, “I'm not exactly...comfortable...with certain things being public knowledge. Spoken of publicly, at least.”

“Well,” Folke drawled, “you've got people who are always going to be up in your shit not just because of who you are but because of who Poppet is. To them you're just your titles, not people.”

“That doesn't mean I have to like it.”

“Fuck no!” exploded the older man, sounding appalled. “I'd worry if either of you were alright with it.”

Meryell nudged her elbow into his ribs and as commented, “And you know Cole doesn't mean it like that.”

“I know, love,” Cullen replied warmly, “but that doesn't change the fact that he says things that I'd rather keep between us.”

Laughing, Folke said, “Good luck with that, lad. Secrets are rare amongst the Fangs and few of us have got any shame about fucking or talking about fucking.” He then sobered and said, “Now, we should probably do as the Captain said and get some rest.”

At that Meryell asked, “Are you going to be alright, _baba_?”

The hedge mage just smiled and stepped towards them, reaching out to cup her cheek with one hand. “Don't you worry about me, _ara’vherain_ ,” he assured warmly. “You've got bigger jobs to plot.”

Laughing at the offended look on her face, Cullen noted, “I think she disagrees, Folke.”

“Brat never did know what was best for her,” replied the man with a wink.

“Suck a dick, _baba_.”

Folke just laughed at that and patted her cheek before he turned to leave the room with a parting, “You say that as if I should be _offended_ , Poppet!” Cullen laughed himself at the parting shot and just shook his head as Meryell turned grumpily towards him.

“He has a point,” he said.

“How about I tell _you_ to go suck a dick?” she retorted angrily, her left ear twitching.

Cullen just smiled and turned so they were facing each other, pulling her in close. “I would remind the dear thief then,” he replied softly, “of the last time she praised my mouth.”

Meryell shivered and shook her head. “How,” she asked, “do you say things like _that_ and still get embarrassed with bits of our sex life being known?”

“Because there's a difference between me saying it to _you_ alone and my men knowing what I say to you in private. Or your _father_ knowing.”

He then effortlessly lifted her up into his arms, smiling as she wrapped her arms around his neck and locked her knees over his hips. Cullen braced his hands around her back to secure her there and leaned his head forward enough that their noses touched.

“There's the parts of me that are for them,” he explained softly, “and the ones that are just for you, love. I like to keep them separate as much as I can. Aren't there parts of me you'd rather keep for yourself?”

“Point made,” she grumbled. Then she sighed and leaned her head against her arms, nestling her face up against the curve of his jaw. “Can we go back to bed?” Meryell asked softly then, sounding a little lost.

Cullen turned his head to kiss her cheek and replied just as softly, “Whatever you want, _vhen’an_.”

“I just want to sleep.”

He knew that tone. That was the tone of voice that screamed _I want to forget_. And after her and the others descriptions of the chaos they'd see in the servant's quarters, he couldn't blame her.

Nodding, Cullen murmured, “Then we'll sleep, love.” He made sure his grip was steady on her and carried her back to their room, making sure to close Josephine’s door behind them. At the end of the hallway one of the Fangs - Dragos if he recalled right, the former Tevinter templar - flashed him a worried look but Cullen just waved it off. He could take care of Meryell on his own.

Once inside their room, he wasted no time in taking them to bed. She was still awake, he knew, but as he worked at the buttons on her shirt and the ties on her pants, Meryell barely stirred. It wasn't until he slid into bed next to her, skin-to-skin, that she even made a noise.

At first he thought it was a laugh and then the sound solidified into a broken _sob_ . Cullen knew then that they hadn't told _half_ of the horror they'd seen.

“They killed them,” she breathed. “They fucking _massacred_ them. They were just _people_ . They were just people doing their _jobs_.”

“I know, I know,” he breathed, pulling her in tightly against him. Her fingers flexed, nails digging into the muscle of his chest where they rested, but he could handle the pain. He'd handled worse. Stroking her hair, careful to avoid touching her ears when she was so distraught, he went on, “We'll get them, love.”

Meryell shook her head and he felt _tears_ wet his skin as she pressed her face against his throat. Cullen just hugged her ever closer, closing his eyes and wondering how he could make this better. What way was there though?

People were _dead._ Lives had been stolen. Children were going to wake up without a parent.

He didn't know of any way to make that better. If he did, he might feel less guilty about the lives _he_ had ruined. Yet who might he be if it was that easy to make the things he'd done better? To simply paint them in the brush of duty and circumstance and move on without caring for families he'd torn apart and lives he'd taken?

Letting out a heavy breath, Cullen said, “We'll make them pay.”

“It won't fucking bring them back,” she sobbed in reply. “They're still _dead_ even if we win this shit storm of a mess. Children…” She choked on the word and tried to press herself closer to him, which made realization hit about why she was so upset. “...they're still going to have a parent dead. What if they're alone? What if they were all they had? What if…”

He interrupted her then, kissing her temple as he breathed, “What if they were like you were?”

She went quiet and still in reply before nodding weakly, a soft, “Yes,” coming out a moment later.

“We can't save every child who loses a parent in this fight, love.”

“I _know_ ,” she hissed, her breath harsh on the skin of his throat. Then Meryell pushed herself back where she could look up at him, her eyes spotty and red, and asked, “But I...I should have been faster. Something. Should’ve... _fuck_.”

“ _Faster?_ ” he repeated. Cullen levered himself up onto an elbow, cupping her cheek as he leaned over her. “You did the best you could with what you had, love. You couldn't have known that those bastards would go after the servants.”

“Shouldn't I?” she hissed angrily in response, sitting up entirely as she jerked away and throwing off the sheets covering them. Burying her head in her hands, knotting her fingers in her hair, Meryell cried out, “What use is this damned _title_ and this fucking _job_ if we can't stop this shit?”

Rising to his knees, Cullen reached for her hands and slowly forced them away from her head, untangling her fingers and then smoothing her hair back down. When he was done, he took her hands in his, running his thumbs over old scars and skin roughened by a hard life, and hissed, “You aren't responsible for the whole damned _world_ except to save it from Corypheus. They may have died at the hands of his minions but their safety wasn't _our_ responsibility. That's on _Celene_.”

“But _I_ was there.”

Sighing, he said, “After, dear thief. You were there after. There was nothing you could have done. _Nothing_.”

Another sob tore it's way out of her throat and Cullen pulled her forward into him. Meryell went limp in response, her body curling inward as more sobs wracked her form, and he gathered her up in his arms. Shifting back towards the head of the bed, he propped himself up against it then settled her in his lap, tugging the blankets up over their legs. As she leaned limply against his chest, her back bowed and tears peppering his skin, he hugged her close once more and stroked her hair.

And his heart ached anew with every fresh sob because there was _nothing_ he could do or say that would make things better.

He held her like that until the sobs and tears subsided, until she merely lay limp and sniffling against his chest. Then Cullen tilted his chin down to kiss the crown of her head and murmured, “I'm so sorry, dear thief.”

“I hate this,” she breathed, sounding broken and lost.

Nodding in agreement, his lips still pressed to her hair, he softly said, “Me too, love, me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations:**
> 
>  
> 
> Bonne nuit - good night
> 
> * * *
> 
> Dont' forget, if you want to keep up to date on what's going on better than just waiting for AO3 updates, here's how:
> 
> [@terioncalling](https://twitter.com/terioncalling) \- My main twitter. It largely pulls from my tumblr, so it's a jumble of nonsense, political commentary, reblogged, fandom shit, and occasionally what I'm listening to at any random point on Spotify.
> 
> [@terionwrites](https://twitter.com/terionwrites) \- My brand spanking new twitter account from which I intend to reblog chapters, possibly stories I like, random other writing stuff, and announcements like this in the future. So basically the main thing to follow if you wanna know why there's been no update or see ramblings about my stories.
> 
> [Patterings of Madness](http://terioncalling.tumblr.com/) \- My tumblr. Basically described above.
> 
> [Power in Stories](http://stories.terion.net/) \- My wordpress blog on my site. Mostly for a secondary reading point or if you want to see some of the original stuff I post (since I haven't yet posted it here and may not).


	49. “I came here with little illusion of any allies beyond my own, Lady Morrigan.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell finally meets the mysterious arcane advisor to Empress Celene and they delve into what exactly has been going on in the servant's quarters, to the unfortunate ruin of a dress sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait! The last part of this chapter wasn't feeling right last night, so I needed a few more hours to bang it out properly.
> 
> Also, for next week, I'm hoping I will have 50 done and ready to post but if I don't manage, it'll be a week before I can get it out as I'll be away from my computer. Will still have my phone so I can write but posting from my phone is a pain in the ass that I don't particularly want to deal with as I will be basically camping with a couple other several hundred people and doing our fantastic medieval stuff (I'm a member of the Society for Creative Anachronism and next week is Gulf Wars, one of our larger events).
> 
> So, yeah, just a heads up that 50 may or may not get posted on time. I will be doing my best though to make it happen (and 51 the week after that).

“Well, well, well. What have we here?”

Meryell turned at the unfamiliar voice, the accent a strange one that reminded her a bit of Folke's - like the sort you heard from those who lived beyond the normal bounds of society. The woman striding towards her was...out of place. Like she did not belong in the fine dress or encased inside the elaborate corset. Did not belong within gilded walls and elaborately decorated corridors.

She belonged in the _wild_.

“Leader of the new Inquisition, fabled Herald of the faith,” continued the woman with a sly, knowing smile. “Delivered from the grasp of the Fade by the blessed Andraste herself. What could bring such an exalted creature here to the Imperial Court, I wonder? Do you even know?”

Smoothing her hands over her skirts to still the need for her mouth to snap _bullshit_ in immediate response (because Maker fucking _forbid_ she offend the delicate sensibilities of the noble pricks within earshot), Meryell replied, “The Inquisition is here for many reasons, my lady. Though, given courtly intrigue, we may never know which are the true ones. And I believe I’m at a disadvantage as I don't know who you are.”

That reply at least made the woman chuckle and their eyes met as she said, “Such intrigues obscure much but not all, Inquisitor.” They eyed each other for a long moment, in which Meryell noted that the woman's eyes were _yellow_ like a wolf or lion’s eyes, before she smiled and inclined her head forward. “I am Morrigan. There are many who call me advisor to Empress Celene on matters of the arcane.”

There surely was only one apostate advisor to the Empress, which meant that this woman was the one that Leliana had spoken to her about the night before. She could fully understand now why the _el'u’verelan_ found her dangerous. Meryell had met enough dangerous people in her life to recognize them.

“And what do you call yourself, Lady Morrigan?” she asked, keeping her tone level.

“I call myself many things, Inquisitor,” replied the woman slyly. “And what of yourself? You have, after all, been quite busy since your arrival here at Halamshiral. Hunting in every dark corner for something. For what, I wonder?”

Oh _this one._ This was a _good one_. She knew how to ask just enough to attempt to coax an answer out.

Meryell, though, had grown up in a gang full of youths and adults who talked out of both sides of their mouths and then had spent her adulthood largely amongst whip smart mercenaries. People who knew how to bribe and cheat their way around, as well as weedle out secrets with nearly the same grace as Josephine. She knew this game.

Smiling, she answered, “My name depends upon who I speak to, of course. As well as who they are to me.” Meryell then tilted her head, folding her hands over each other, and went on, “And _hunting_ , my lady? Whatever reason would I have to be hunting anything?”

Morrigan smiled - though the expression didn't quite meet her eyes - and said quietly, “Perhaps I am mistaken then, Inquisitor. Or…” She trailed off as she moved to walk by, heading towards the rail that overlooked the ballroom floor, and finished after she passed, “Or perhaps we hunt the same prey?”

“Do we?” asked Meryell as she turned to follow, falling easily into step with the other woman.

Laughing, Morrigan noted, “You are being quite coy, Inquisitor. Do you fear letting your hand get out of play or is there perhaps something more?”

Smiling thinly, Meryell lifted a hand to ‘adjust’ her mask - the same that Arnald had gifted her when they'd arrived, which now contrasted it's rift green against the golden color of her dress for tonight - and replied in a low undertone, “I'm being fucking _careful_.”

The other woman smiled widely before saying, “Aaah. _There_ is the woman who hides behind the mask. Or perhaps merely a fragment of her.” She then dismissively waved a hand before folding them on top of the railing. “Very well, I will speak first then.”

Those yellow eyes turned to regard Meryell fully as Morrigan dropped her volume to say, “I have recently found and killed an unwelcome guest within these halls. An agent of Tevinter. Thus, I offer you this, Inquisitor: a key from the Tevinter’s body.”

The key itself didn’t look familiar but as soon as she folded her fingers around it, Meryell recognized it. It was a copy of the servant’s quarters key, almost exactly like the crude copies that Pod had handed out _just in case_ before he and Sera had gone on their mission the night before. She could feel the grooves digging into her palm, all too familiar after spending most of the run from Gaspard’s home with her own copy clutched tight.

She didn’t let her surprise show on her face and nodded when Morrigan continued, “I know not where it leads, yet if Celene is in danger I cannot leave her side to search.”

“I can,” Meryell noted. Then she frowned and asked, “You left her alone?”

“She is in no danger...for the moment,” replied the other woman. “After all, ‘twould be a great fool who struck at her in public, before all of her court and the Imperial Guard.”

“Or,” mused Meryell, “the wisest tactic for someone attempting to sow discord amongst her allies and enemies alike.” If she had been hired to cause panic and disorder, to turn ally and enemy upon each other so as to keep them occupied while the queen moved to take the king, it was the move she would make. Strike and disappear, leave no trace behind.

She realized a breath after she'd spoken that Cullen and his penchant for chess analogies at the oddest occasion was apparently influencing her own speech now.

Morrigan narrowed her eyes, her gaze turning a little bit sharper and more assessing, before she softly agreed, “‘Twould be an option if that is what one wished. Such action would still require the perfect timing and I do not believe such time has come. Don't you agree, Inquisitor?”

Smiling thinly, Meryell replied, “Not quite yet, Lady Morrigan. Such time hasn't come yet.” She then frowned and asked, “Why kill the man, by the way? You don't seem the type to blindly lash out at those who stand against you.”

“So forward, Inquisitor, to think you know me so. What makes you believe I _would_ have kept him alive?”

“Hunch,” she answered with a casual shrug.

Morrigan laughed before saying, “So _very_ coy, Inquisitor.” Then her laughter faded as she went on, “I would not have slain him if he had not chosen to attack me first. I did not, as well, realize who he was until the battle was over and he had breathed his last.”

A small smile twitched at the corner of her mouth as she inclined her head forward and said, “You are correct in your assessment, Inquisitor. I would have rather kept him alive to answer all our questions.”

“Alas,” commented Meryell lightly.

“Alas indeed. I would proceed with caution, Inquisitor. Enemies abound here and not all of them aligned with Tevinter.”

Meryell let out a low, unladylike snort - Josephine would be _appalled_ but Morrigan was no court lady to be impressed by _proper form and manners_ \- and smirked as she shot back, “I came here with little fucking illusion of any allies beyond my own, Lady Morrigan.”

That made the woman laugh before she turned to walk away, smiling over her shoulder as she said, “I look forward to seeing where your hunt leads you next, Inquisitor. What comes next will no doubt be most exciting.”

Staying at the railing, Meryell watched the woman walk away until she disappeared into the throngs of nobles that filled the ballroom. She slipped as easily between them as any Dalish hunter through a crowd, just further clarifying her wild origin.

Meryell sure as _shit_ didn't trust her (the only reason she'd taken the key was because she knew something was going on in the servant's quarters) but she felt like she could _like_ the woman. In the same wary sort of respect-from-a-distance way she liked the _el'u’verelan_.

And, speaking of her spymaster, she needed to find her.

They had a job to finish.

* * *

“They...they were like ghosts, Inquisitor,” gasped the soldier, a burly man dressed in the simple garb and apron of a chef, as he pressed a cloth to his bleeding forehead. They'd found him and several others of their men who had been put into place as servants fighting with with Venatori as soon as they entered the servant's quarters. “Those masked ones, they gutted Horace before we even knew they were here. Then the Venatori were on us in a flash. That mage from your company, though, she immediately shielded the rest of us. Likely the only thing that kept us alive.”

“Well,” Meryell noted grimly, “Bel’s gotten lots of practice over the years.” She then ducked her head, leaning over where she could peer around the cloth to get a look at his wound before saying, “You're bleeding like a stuck pig but I think you're gonna be fine, Sergeant Olyver.”

The man chuckled at that before saying dryly, “Y’know how to make a man feel confident in his abilities, Inquisitor. Head wounds always bleed like a bitch.”

“Sergeant!” exclaimed one of the others, a young man with the darker skin of a native Antivan but only a hint of the accent, looking pale. He flicked his gaze between the older man and Meryell before hissing, “You can't talk like that to the _Inquisitor._ ”

“Pff, our Inquisitor here's been a merc for a good ten years if I remember what I've heard ‘round the barracks.” The sergeant grinned up at her before adding, “I bet she's heard far worse than what I can throw out.”

Meryell grinned brightly in return at the man, always delighted when one of the soldiers or scouts spoke to her like a _person_ and not a _figurehead_. “You'd be right,” she agreed. “I've heard a shitting good amount of cursing over the years. Half of it fucking mine.”

That comment made the young man only paler (like he was about to faint) and the sergeant laugh.

“Now,” she went on, falling back into a more professional demeanor, “you lot stay here and hold down this area. I don't expect they'll circle back but given that we know they like to cut all their losses, better safe than sorry. Who else of ours got assigned down here?”

Olyver nodded sharply in response before saying, “One of my corporals, Edine d’Arlesans. She's got the rest of our company that the Commander assigned mingled in with the other servants doing menial shite and keeping an eye out. That lot’ll get a surprise when they get to them. Edine’s mighty mean with a blade in her hand and every man with her is the same way.”

 _Good_ , thought Meryell, _that means they have weapons hidden either on them or nearby. We might manage to get some of the innocents out of this shithole._

“We'll get them out,” she promised before rising from her crouch in front of the man. Looking at the younger man, Meryell ordered, “Find your healing kit and make sure that wound won't be a problem. I'd hate for blood in his eyes to rob us of a good sergeant.”

“Aye, ma'am!” he replied with a sharp but obviously nervous salute. Then he seemed to realize what he'd said and stammered out, “S-sorry. Inquisitor!”

Waving a hand, Meryell stepped over and patted his shoulder as she said, “Don't fret too much about it, lad. No skin off my tits if you don't get the right title. Now hop to on that kit, yeah?” When he just went pale, nodding vigorously before he bolted away, she sighed and rolled her eyes as she grumbled, “What is it with the young ones tripping over themselves around me with nervousness?”

“They like to please and they don't want those above them to see them stumble,” replied the sergeant with a smile. “You weren't like that as a young lass?”

“Didn't get much of a sodding opportunity to be a normal lass, Sergeant. And most anyone above me was someone to cut the purse of and run when I was around his age.” Smiling thinly, Meryell brushed on through the conversation to avoid any chance of pity, saying, “Keep ‘em safe, Sergeant. I don't want to come back to anymore fucking bodies.”

Olyver nodded sharply in reply, saluting with the hand not holding the cloth to his wound. “Aye, Inquisitor. I'll see it done.”

She clapped him on the shoulder at that then moved on, weaving through the crowd of her people before she reached the side of Bel and Pod. Bel was wearing a simple woolen dress that was terribly foreign to the fine robes the Antivan tended to wear and Pod was dressed down into the neat but cheap garb of a common elven servant. It was at such odds with their normal appearance (especially since Bel wasn't wearing her hair in her normal braid, instead piling it messily on top of her head) that she had to check for their carefully displayed company badges before she started talking.

“Same lot from last night?” she asked Pod in a low voice. When he frowned, Meryell pointed out, “They were gone by the time we got here, remember? Scared off by that door you and Sera left open like someone had escaped?”

Pod’s expression cleared then and he nodded. “Same masks and methods so I can only assume the same ones as before come back to finish their work. We were lucky to have Bel here.”

“Shields are everyone’s best friend,” noted the mage with a smile. Then she sobered and asked, “You're certain you want to go on ahead with just the four of you?”

Snorting, Meryell replied, “Four? Cass alone is worth three warriors. Not to mention that Dorian can bring the fucking dead to our side too.”

“Still creepy as fuck, that is,” muttered Pod. He then shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well get going, _asa’ma’lin_. They've got the advantage of time on you and you need it more than the rest of us since you're dealing with the sots upstairs.

“Ugh, don't remind me, _isa’ma’lin_.” Meryell then looked hard at her fellow Fangs and said, “Keep ‘em safe, yeah?”

Pod snorted and Bel smiled as she said, “We'll keep this lot alive, don't you worry. Now go kill the shit out of the bastards that tried to off us.”

Grinning, she didn't even bother to reply. Instead Meryell just turned and called out, “Cass!”

“Inquisitor?” queried the woman, a serious look on her face as she stood guard at one of the doorways alongside a soldier with a hastily bandaged arm. She then narrowed her eyes, seeming to realize what was up, and stated firmly, “We are ready.”

Maker fucking _bless_ the surety of the Seeker.

“Yes, we fucking are,” she answered with a savage smile as she drew her daggers from their sheaths. “Let's go kill some bastards.”

* * *

“What happened?” exclaimed Josephine as Meryell stepped back out of the servant’s quarters with Cassandra and Dorian right on her heels. The warrior had her shield at the ready to cover them (not that it was needed with allies at their backs but she wasn't about to tell Cass _no_ ) as the mage did what he could to heal a cut on her arm that had torn straight through one of the delicate sleeves. “ _Your dress!_ ”

“Masked _asshole_ is what happened,” snarled Meryell in response as she began immediately tugging at the buckles that held her dagger harness in place. “Little shithead pounced on me from behind while we were fighting Venatori fuckers, trying to stab me in the back. Thank _fuck_ I noticed he was there and tried to dodge, elsewise we wouldn't be having this conversation, Josie.”

The ambassador just stared at her for a moment, blinking several times, before she took in a deep breath then let it out a moment later. “It is fine, just fine,” she intoned softly. “We can fix this. Now _don't. Move._ ”

Snorting, Meryell muttered, “Trust me, I'm not going anywhere,” as Josephine bustled away, grabbing the passing arm of what she knew was an Inquisition scout in disguise as a servant and hissing Salain’s name to them. Then the ambassador disappeared and Dorian made an amused noise in the back of his throat.

“One would think with her scolding that you had burned down the whole Palace around our ears instead of avoided dying,” he mused, shifting his hands slightly along her arm. Then she watched his lips purse beneath his moustache as the mage added, “Though you have done a _dreadful_ thing to this dress, darling. These sleeves were a true work of art.”

“Didn’t get any blood on the skirts or bodice, though, did I?” asked Meryell, tilting her chin up proudly.

Dorian laughed outright at that and nodded, replying, “Yes, yes, be proud of yourself for that one. Usually you can’t manage to keep blood off of your armor.”

“This time is because she was being careful to _not_ ,” Cassandra noted sternly as she paced back towards them after firmly shutting the door. She frowned at them for a moment before she continued, “Sergeant Olyver and those with him are guarding this passage from within. Corporal Edine has apparently made it her personal mission that _one of those masked bitches_ will not make it near you again. And Sera has apparently disappeared entirely.”

Chuckling, Meryell smiled as she said, “I think Corporal Edine might be a woman after my own heart. You know Sera will turn up again, probably after putting something nasty into someone’s drink.” She then glanced towards Dorian and asked, “We good?”

“As well as I can manage, darling,” he replied, patting her arm along the mostly healed but still red gash along her arm. “If Josephine could be delightful enough to bring a real healer back with her, you could go back out there with nothing to show from that little scuffle.”

Cassandra snorted and tipped her head towards where the ambassador had disappeared, saying, “It would seem she had the same thought.” Then her voice lowered as she added, “Cullen is accompanying her as well.”

Meryell turned to look at the approaching party and saw over their shoulders as they came down the stairs that their actual in Inquisition garb soldiery were barring entrance to the Hall of Heroes briefly to allow them some privacy. Then she blinked at the sight of Gil walking with them. As she opened her mouth to note that the woman was _supposed_ to be back at Gaspard’s mansion and _not_ in the middle of the mission because you didn’t throw pure healers into a fucking fight, the woman sternly held up a finger.

“Not one fucking word,” she hissed. “They called me out here to take care of those who got wounded and you know I sure as shit don’t leave anyone dying on a field if I can help it. Now let me see that arm.”

She’d been around the woman for enough years to know when Gil was in full on Healer Mode and fighting against it was about as useless as getting between herself and Folke. A body was liable to feel just as runover by Gil as someone was to be _actually_ run over by her or her father. Though anyone Gil ran over was less likely to get set on fire as an afterthought.

So Meryell just held out her arm as Dorian took a quick step back and replied, “Yes, ma’am.”

Gil narrowed her eyes at her, glanced towards Josephine, then drew the knife that she wore at her belt. Despite the ambassador’s choked gasp of breath, she cut the thin fabric of the sleeves away with the same surgical precision she used on the very rare occasion she had to actually get into a body, sheathed it, and examined the healed wound with sharp eyes. Gil then placed a hand around Meryell’s arm at either end of the wound. Their eyes met and the mage said sharply, “Deep breath.”

Meryell knew what that meant. Quick burst healing, the sort that they kept relegated to the battlefield or rush cases who were in danger of dying from wounds. Every healer in the company learned how to _push_ magic out in a burst that was rapid healing in an instant and not the slow pull of usual.

Upside, the wound usually didn’t kill the person who’d taken it. _Usually_. Even with magical healing wounds could go foul and poisonous to the body.

Downside, the person being healed got a rush to the head that their former templars compared to feeling the first taste of lyrium ( _power and the ability to do anything_ ) that lead to a heavy crash in a few hours. Dependant upon how hale their body was besides the wound, of course.

She didn’t question the necessity. She _knew_ how many of theirs and the remaining actual servants had been wounded. Knew that she didn’t need the distraction of a great big gash on her arm with the noble pricks. No, Meryell just took a deep breath, locked eyes with Gil, and let the familiar magic rock through her.

It was like being kicked in the crotch but _backwards_.

For a brief moment her breath caught as her entire body tensed up, limbs stiffening as her body attempted to process what was going on. The sensation had panicked her the first time one of the healers had to pull this on her and she'd spent the moments after breathing hard. Now she took it in stride and did her best to relax through the tensing and the rush of energy that followed, setting her limbs to tingling madly and her heart pounding wildly in her ears. Like when she ran every step in the keep, breathing hard with exhilaration when she came to her stop on one of the tall towers with nothing but the Free Marches lying before her far below.

She felt Gil’s hands on her face, prodding and poking for a moment, holding her eyes open, before she nodded sharply and punched her lightly on the shoulder. “Climb, girl,” the mage intoned sharply.

Meryell just grinned a little dazedly at the older woman and asked, “How high?”

“High as you have to to punch bastards in the face,” replied Gil with a wink and a smile. Then she was gone, nodding to Cassandra as she moved past the warrior and disappeared into the servant’s quarters.

“Climb?” repeated Dorian. “Is this some sort of cryptic communication you and your little family have?”

Smiling at his calling them correctly her _family_ , Meryell turned her head towards him and replied, “ _Climb the Vimmarks high_ , is part of one of our sayings.”

“For punching bastards in the face?”

“For getting shit _done_.”

“Well, shit needs to get done quickly,” Cullen intoned as he moved forward finally. He then frowned and asked, “Are you alright? Your…” His frown deepened, lines that she usually didn’t notice unless he was in deep thought marring his face, and leaned down. “Maker’s breath, your eyes are _wrong_.”

For a moment she didn't realize what he was talking about before remembering that the burst of healing made the black centers of the eyes huge, nearly blacking out the whole eye. Then she registered _why_ he had that off tone in his voice when he said the word _wrong._

That offness had her reaching up to touch his arm reassuringly. “I’m me, _vhen’an_ . This is no dream. _Ar ame ara’lan_ ,” she whispered, knowing that that word usually meant _demons_ and _nightmares_ to her lover. Cullen’s face relaxed a little but the worry didn’t disappear until she explained, “It’s the way Gil did the healing. Fast and quick makes the wound go away easy because she pushes so much magic into it but it accelerates the healing in the body. Sends shit haywire doing it like that, so folks that have it done to them get a rush for a good bit before they crash. My eyes should even out in a moment, it's just my body being stressed about the quick healing making them huge.”

“Was that what she did?” asked Dorian, frowning as he tapped his fingers against his lips. “I swear, your company mages are full of surprises.”

“It’s usually only a battlefield or in danger of dying necessity,” Meryell further explained. She then bounced on her toes, already feeling the rush of energy kicking off the need to _move_ , and turned to Josephine. “How long until Salain gets here?”

The ambassador pursed her lips as she trailed her eyes over the further torn sleeve and then over the rest of the dress before she replied. “Not soon enough,” she said with a frown. “You all should go ahead and get that armor off before someone sees you. Especially you, Inquisitor.”

Snorting, Meryell asked, “Because I’ve got my skirts up and showing my ankles?” Josephine just shook her head in response, her expression something between amused and exasperated. Meryell then turned her attention back to Cullen as she felt the backs of his fingers brush lightly over her upper arm where the mostly healed wound had been. She watched him touch the now unblemished (if a bit tight) skin that had now replaced it as if she’d never been hit by the masked assassin then turned her face up towards his.

His smile was tight and thin and she asked, “Are you alright?”

Cullen sighed softly and replied, “It’s foolish.”

“ _Vhen’an_ , after most of two years knowing me, I’d like to think you’d fucking know that I _like_ foolish sometimes.”

He gave a fraction of a more real smile and she glanced over at the others before stepping away to the other side of the lower area of the Hall. Cullen followed with a vague frown and Meryell just shrugged before replying, “I’d like to have a few fucking minutes to have a _private_ conversation with you that’s not had before we either go to bed or I get terrified _out_ of bed by our resident spirit.” That had his face immediately clearing up and he chuckled softly before nodding.

“I wouldn’t mind that myself,” he said softly. Then he moved his hand, running his fingers over the lower part of the carefully padded leathers that she was wearing over most of the bodice of the dress. “We should get you out of this too.”

Meryell nodded then fluttered her eyelashes coyly up at him, teasing, “Too bad we can’t just chuck the whole piss pot mess to the floor, eh? Leathers...the dress... _everything_ …”

Cullen hissed out a breath in response before saying in a dark undertone, “You are deliberately trying my patience, aren’t you?”

“Am I? Would you have me up against this wall? Imagine the scandal, _vhen’an_ , of them having the bare flesh of an _elf_ staining their precious walls as she was pinned to it by her very _Ferelden_ lover.” Meryell smiled, tipping her head back slightly as she imagined the horrified looks, and purred, “Maker’s festering dick, I’m almost tempted to do it just to say we did it.”

To his credit, Cullen’s face wasn’t red. His ears, however, were distinctly pink.

She also noticed that while the pull of his mouth downward said _disapproval_ , the look in his eyes said _interest_ just a little bit.

He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other then before he smiled down at her, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. “You are _terrible_ ,” he murmured, lips lingering on her skin. “A complete and utter terror.”

“Careful now,” she teased back, “that’s a compliment according to Fang standards.”

Cullen snorted at that, muttering under his breath that he wasn’t surprised, then he purposefully used both hands to turn her sideways so he could start working at the buckles of her armor along her left side. With a sigh, Meryell began working at loosening the buckles of her harness and then maneuvered around him in order to get it off. After letting it gently down to the floor, she began working on the buckles on the other side of her armor.

As she was finishing, Meryell felt Cullen’s lips lightly touch her ear - the same featherlight touch he'd done since learning why she flinched at them being touched. She pursed her lips, fingers stilling on the last buckle, and asked softly, “Cullen?”

“Is it foolish of me to want to be the one protecting you?” he asked, voice pitched low so as not to be overheard. She frowned at that and turned towards him, letting one hand rise to rest on his chest on the overlap of his coat. His eyes were dark with thought as he looked down at her then he abruptly jerked his head away, looking embarrassed. “Not that Cassandra isn't able to protect you fully at all.”

“But you’d rather it was your shield,” she said. “While I wouldn't fucking mind at all seeing you in action, there's a problem with lovers in the field.”

He nodded, sighing, before saying under his breath, “They usually can't disconnect and if one gets hurt, the other will usually ignore all orders and run to them.” When she just tilted her head to the side curiously, Cullen added,  “I saw it in other templars, particularly when I was serving in Kirkwall. That city...what we were asked to do there left a bitter taste in our mouths. Even when I thought what we were doing was right. So some found comfort in each other and that proved fatal too often.”

“No one stopped fraternization?” she asked, surprised. Most of the Fangs had served in one army or another and one or the main rules they all brought with them was that you didn't put lovers on the same mission together. It was why now Hart and Pod were never assigned together.

Even Folke and Evune were never put together, just in case their feelings compromised the job. It was the same way with family, though she and Folke had their own bad habit of breaking that tentative rule.

“I suspect now,” Cullen replied darkly, “that Commander Meredith was thinking that it culled weaklings out of the ranks. Every time I tried to bring it up then, she merely brushed my concerns off and reminded me that templars were disciplined enough to not let anything happen.”

“You're really only reminding me that I wish I'd been around to gut that crazy bitch a long time ago.”

He snorted at that then slipped his hand around her side, deftly undoing the last buckle and separating the two pieces of the armor to lift it carefully over her head. Bending slightly, he let it drop to the floor at their feet then knelt on one knee to begin working at the knots that held up the skirts of her dress on the right side.

“I might have a far different opinion of you if you’d been around to do that,” he noted quietly. Cullen then canted his eyes up at her as he added, “Probably not a very good one.”

Meryell smiled down at him and reached out her right land to rest on his shoulder as her left moved to the ties on that side. “Guess it’s good then that I wasn’t around for that after all.”

Cullen chuckled in reply and shrugged the shoulder her hand rested on before he said, “I’d rather have a good opinion of you than a bad.” He then gave a deft tug to the ties on her dress and the skirts billowed back down over her legs on that side, hiding her sturdy boots and leggings from sight. Without asking, he slid his hand between hers to get at the other ties and swiftly freed those, which made her smile and lean forward into him as he stood up.

“How is it that you know my dresses better than I do?” she asked coyly.

Smiling, he leaned down and his breath tickled her ear as he smoothly replied, “A warrior has to know every field that he fights on. Even if that field is a dress.”

Heat bloomed in her cheeks in response to that, at the idea that her dress was something to be fought to get to the prize underneath, and Meryell started to open her mouth to reply to the comment. Then there was a distinctly Rivaini curse from the top of the stairs behind Cullen (one she knew well from Zarru using it frequently and it was _incredibly_ impolite) and she sighed as she caught sight of a horrified looking Salain. As Josephine approached the woman, Meryell frowned and leaned her forehead against Cullen’s chest, the buttons pressing a little harshly into her skin.

“Damn it to the fucking Void,” she cursed under her breath, feeling tired despite the energy Gil’s healing had infused her with.

Cullen chuckled in response and let his hands rest on her hips as he softly said, “It would seem the Maker is not in favor of our having too long a moment of peace while we’re here. Unsurprising, I suppose, since it’s Orlais and we are both Ferelden.”

Snorting, Meryell grumbled, “The Maker can go suck a cock.”

“I’m fairly certain that he doesn’t do that,” he murmured before he lifted a hand to tilt her chin up. Cullen kissed her softly before he said in a quiet tone, “Back to work, love.”

“Work can also go suck a cock,” she spat, wrinkling her nose. Then she sighed and nodded before lightly kissing him back. “Don’t let the assholes out there get to you, _vhen’an_.”

He laughed at that and said, “You’ve actually given me quite the idea of a distraction.”

Meryell arched an eyebrow and smiled broadly up at him. “Have I now?” she asked. Then she caught movement out of the corner of one eye and sighed as Josephine waved frantically at her. Rising up on her toes, she leaned into Cullen and kissed him soundly before whispering, “You think on that then, _vhen’an._ And I want to hear what you came up with before we leave Orlais.”

His mouth pressed eagerly back into hers, hands curling around her waist, then he asked softly, “Not tonight?”

“Tonight I'll be unfortunately dead of exhaustion,” Meryell replied glumly. She then cupped his cheek in her hand and murmured, “ _Ar lath ma_.”

“ _Ar lath ma_ ,” Cullen returned softly. Then his gaze hardened as he sternly said, “Now...what was it...climb high?”

Him saying the company words made her smile brightly and she nodded before finally pulling herself away from him. Salain made a particularly mournful noise as she saw the ruin of the dress’ sleeve and then Josephine was pulling them away, saying she knew somewhere private to work in.

Meryell let them drag her away, taking her mask back from Josephine as they went. Then she stood there, musing over all the things they had found out while she let Salain work to salvage the dress. She frowned down at the rift green branches of the mask in her hand and smiled grimly.

 _Climb_ had been invoked twice tonight, once by company and once by another just as dear to her heart. She had no choice but to respond in the only way she knew.

By being the wardog she was and taking shit from no one.  
  
Not even an Empress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**
> 
>  
> 
> Ar ame ara’lan - I am myself
> 
> Dont' forget, if you want to keep up to date on what's going on better than just waiting for AO3 updates, here's how:
> 
> [@terioncalling](https://twitter.com/terioncalling) \- My main twitter. It largely pulls from my tumblr, so it's a jumble of nonsense, political commentary, reblogged, fandom shit, and occasionally what I'm listening to at any random point on Spotify.
> 
> [@terionwrites](https://twitter.com/terionwrites) \- My brand spanking new twitter account from which I intend to reblog chapters, possibly stories I like, random other writing stuff, and announcements like this in the future. So basically the main thing to follow if you wanna know why there's been no update or see ramblings about my stories.
> 
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> 
> [Power in Stories](http://stories.terion.net/) \- My wordpress blog on my site. Mostly for a secondary reading point or if you want to see some of the original stuff I post (since I haven't yet posted it here and may not).


	50. “I believe we owe the court another show, Your Grace.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second night at Halamshiral comes crashing to an end as Meryell must rush to confront Duchess Florianne in order to save Celene as well as pull together all of the threads the Inquisition has discovered into one knot that will hopefully bind Orlais back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOKIT THAT. 255,000 words even! And now we're over halfway to 300k!

“Inquisitor, your armor!” Josephine exclaimed as Meryell rushed past her into the ballroom, not even bothering to slow down to fully acknowledge her advisor.

“ _Fuck my armor._ It's Florianne!” she called back. She could see the woman standing on the other side of the dance floor, on the landing below Celene where she had faced the Empress upon their arrival. Her back was to them, so she definitely hadn't noticed their arrival - even if the nobles around them were twittering softly about her bloodstained armor, tied up skirts, and the general disheveled state of her.

It had taken too damned long for them to put down the demons from the rift, the archers, and deal with the mercenary captain. What was it about the Inquisition that seemed to be attracting them? First her and the Fangs, then the Chargers, and now this Ferelden captain of Gaspard’s who she would _gladly_ steal if only for shits and giggles. If he didn't know incriminating shit on the man, anyway.

Shaking her head sharply, Meryell worked to focus. After the dancing, investigating, and fighting that had taken up the rest of the night after she'd gotten her arm healed, she was nearly at her limit. Dealing with the rift hadn't made anything easier either as closing them always sapped energy out of her.

That and her hand and arm still stung like a _bitch_.

She flicked her eyes around at the crowd and found both Cullen and Arnald in near the railing of the upper level. Stepping onto the top of the stairs where they could see her, Meryell flashed them two quick hand signals. Two of the ones they'd devised for the Inquisition as a whole to learn between them.

_Danger._

_Follow me._

Panic flickered over Cullen’s face for a moment before he swiftly shut it down, professionalism overruling anything else. He then disappeared from the railing and when she looked for Arnald, he was already gone.

“Inquisitor!” she heard Josephine hiss but Meryell ignored her. Instead she turned to Cassandra at her side and hissed three words.

“Get to Celene.”

The Seeker nodded sharply and was gone, pushing through the crowd with the same battering ram force she used on the field. Meryell then reached out blindly and felt Cole’s thin fingers curl around hers.

“Fear, fluttering and flickering like flame,” intoned the boy in a bare whisper. “Will I make it?”

“The fuck I won't,” growled Meryell. She then took a breath and asked, “Guard my back, Cole?”

She could practically feel his smile before he breathed, “Always,” and then his fingers disappeared from hers like mist.

With that she brushed off anything else, shrugging her shoulders to feel the pull of her armor and harness in reassurance. Then Meryell straightened her back and stepped down to the ballroom floor. The twittering of crowd increased as more saw her, many subtly pointing and whispering to their neighbors at the rail.

Yet when she hit the middle of the floor, the only sound left was the clicking of her boot heels on the polished floor. For Celene had seen her and tilted her chin up, no longer paying attention those before her. And Florianne had not turned but she had noticed that something was _wrong._

Gaspard and Briala, both standing where they could see the ballroom, noticed her and each took a step back.

“Duchess Florianne,” Meryell called out, her tone like steel. In the silence of the ballroom, it _boomed_ despite the fact that she was not speaking much more loudly than her normal volume. She smiled as she watched Florianne’s spine stiffen beneath her fine dress and sketched an elaborate bow. “I believe we owe the court another show, Your Grace.”

The woman did turn then and her tone was icy as she said only, “Inquisitor.”

 _Caution_ , Meryell heard her oldest teacher say in her head - the boy Hob who'd been barely a few years older than her in the gang, who had taught her how to pick pockets and how to watch for the right time to strike. _Let them come to you, yeah, runt? Makes your job easier...and occasionally them look like the fool._

Tilting her head to the side, she smiled before saying, “Have a care, Duchess. The eyes of every noble here are on us. Do remember to smile.”

Meryell then let her smile go edged and _hard_ as she moved forward, up the steps towards the woman. “After all,” she went on, “we wouldn't want anyone to think you’d lost control.”

Florianne tilted her chin up and sniffed delicately. “It does not appear that _I_ am the one without control, Inquisitor.”

“Oh this?” Meryell asked, gesturing vaguely at her raised skirts and bloodied leathers. “This is nothing for _me_ to be embarrassed about, Your Grace. I know full well that I'm really a graceless heathen with few manners and fewer niceties. All of this shite was for show. We both know how to hide our true nature, however, don't we?”

“I...I do not know what you mean.”

 _Unless you see weakness_ , hissed Hob’s voice in her ear from years past. She could practically feel his phantom arm around her shoulders, smell the dog-wood-smoke-food smell of the South Reach market, feel the wood of the roof they had perched on digging splinters into her skin. _You know what you do then, runt?_

The memory of her, ten and three years and riding on _rage_ and _pain_ , smiled and replied, _Strike_.

_Ha, we'll make a thief of you yet._

Tilting her head to the side in a curious gesture, Meryell mused, “What was it you said? ‘All I needed was to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike’?”

When Florianne merely looked at her but said nothing, she pressed on.

Smiling, Meryell stalked forward a step. “Honestly I thought that when your archers failed to kill me that you would forget to save me this last dance. We did, after all, dance so prettily earlier.”

Without waiting for a reply, she glanced up at Celene - who merely tilted her head and regarded then both with well hidden curiosity - then plowed on, “But it's so _easy_ to ruin a reputation, isn't it, Duchess? As you tried to ruin your brother’s by murdering a Council emissary with a Chalon dagger.” Meryell then stepped in close, hissing in a low but still audible tone to those close, “I know enough about Orlais to know that there are few of those daggers ever made. Not of that fine a make and certainly not with the Chalons crest. And I know that your brother carries _his_ with him tonight.”

There was a startled gasp from somewhere but Meryell ignored it, never turning her attention from Florianne. She was wounded, limping, but a lame beast was still a _beast_.

She had to take its _teeth_.

“It was an ambitious plan,” she went on, glancing out of the corner of one eye towards Gaspard. The man was shaking his head at the whole debacle but she could see that he'd drawn his dagger from somewhere and it was now thrust through his belt. He was still a _heel_ for the shit he had done but she wasn't about to let him go down for a murder he hadn't committed. “All of your enemies under one roof: Gaspard, Celene, the Council of Heralds...who could resist trying to take such a prize? Such a _gift_?”

And she could see _fear_ in Florianne’s eyes as the woman took a step back.

“This is all very entertaining,” the woman primly noted but anyone paying attention could hear the strain in her voice, “But who do you think is truly going to believe your wild stories?”

“That,” Celene intoned imperiously from above them, “will be best decided by a judge, cousin.”

Meryell just smiled as Gaspard also stepped forward with a frown. “I did not wish to believe such,” he said sternly as he glanced towards her, “but it seems I must.”

Florianne’s shock in response to that statement was almost... _honest_ . She turned towards him, distress on her features below her mask and true sounding sorrow in her voice as she exclaimed, “Gaspard, you cannot believe this! I would _never…_ ”

And he turned away.

Even Meryell sucked in a breath alongside the soft gasps from the ballroom because that gesture had as much disgrace in it as any decommission she'd seen in the company.

“Gaspard?” breathed Florianne, sounding small and lost. Then she began backing away as Imperial Guards replaced the retreating figures of her brother and Briala. She glanced behind her, frightened and _beaten_ , at the ones who had come down the other stairs and then her eyes locked with Meryell’s.

They _begged_.

Her own replied _No_ in return.

She had no sympathy for the woman who had orchestrated children losing their parents for no reason but power. Not. One. Whit.

Taking a step forward, Meryell hissed in a low voice, “I'm afraid, Your Grace, that this is the end of our dance. Pity you weren't skilled enough for another turn.” As she turned away, locking eyes with another Guard as he mounted the steps from the main floor, she heard the woman sob before her knees hit the floor with a sound muffled by the fabric of her dress.

She looked back across the ballroom, seeing Josephine and several of the others standing at the stairs. Cullen and Arnald’s location wasn't certain but she knew they would be nearby, waiting for if they needed to send Inquisition or Fangs into combat. Now, of course, they weren't needed.

As she listened to the Guards behind her dragging Florianne up to her feet and away, Meryell lifted her left hand up with her forearm and fingers pointing towards the ceiling. The Mark sparked briefly, making her palm jump, and she closed her hand into a fist in a sharp gesture as the ballroom gasped in response to the flash of green light. Instantly those at the other end of the room scattered, moving to spread the word of the signal to those who hadn't been able to see it.

The ballroom at large might think she was just showing off the Mark but the Inquisition knew the gesture as _stand down._

Turning back towards Celene, she inclined her head politely before saying, “I believe we should speak, Your Imperial Majesty. In private.”

“I believe you are correct, Inquisitor,” the Empress replied, gesturing to her right. Meryell nodded and moved up the steps until she came even with the other woman, noting that Cassandra and Leliana were standing distantly behind her at the edges of the crowd. Then she snapped her attention back to Celene as the woman said, “Perhaps you would like a moment to...freshen up?”

Blinking, Meryell glanced down at herself then chuckled, shaking her head. She then looked back up at the Empress and asked, “May I be bluntly honest, Your Majesty?”

Celene made a vague gesture in response as she nodded.

“If I stop moving right now, I'm liable to not fucking get back up until late tomorrow. Best to finish what we have to finish while I'm still on my feet.”

The other woman arched a pale eyebrow and said, “You were being quite serious about being blunt, Inquisitor.”

Shrugging, she replied, “Like I said, the polite niceties are an act. I don't hide what I am if I don't have to and I think the time for ploys like that are over.” Then Meryell paused and added, “Speaking of being blunt, your cousin the Duchess was working for Tevinter. Essentially.”

“Essentially,” Celene commented with a slightly arched brow.

“Let's just say it's a damned long, convoluted story,” Meryell answered with a sigh. Lifting a hand to run her fingers through her hair, she went on. “There are bodies of Venatori - Tevinter - agents in several parts of the Palace, most of which my men know the location of. And your servants who survived their attempted purge of their quarters can confirm that they were attacked by them.”

The Empress tilted her head slightly at that then frowned darkly, saying, “I see. Come then, Inquisitor.”

Meryell followed in the wake of the woman, mildly amused as the people parted before them like the sea before a boat’s prow. She could hear slightly raised voices from somewhere, her ears twitching at the noise, and then she placed them. As they stepped out onto a balcony off the main ballroom, Imperial Guards falling into place behind them at the open doorway, she saw Gaspard and Briala were already there.

“Your sister was plotting to commit _regicide_ , Gaspard! In front of the entire court!”

“And yet you, the spymaster, did not see this coming,” Gaspard returned, his chin tilted high. “If anyone _knew_ this...atrocity...was coming, it would have been you.”

“Yet _you_ don't deny your own involvement,” Briala shot back. Meryell could see her eyes were slightly narrowed beneath her mask.

Gaspard took a step forward at that, making a sharp slashing gesture through the air as he half shouted, “I _do_ deny it! I knew nothing of Florianne’s plans! _You_ knew everything and did nothing.”

Now Briala smirked and Meryell marked a mental tally in her favor. She'd won that round, no doubt. That was the look of a woman who was triumphant.

“I'm not certain what's more amusing, Gaspard: the fact that you think I'm all-seeing or that you're trying so hard to fob off your own involvement and failing.”

Meryell snorted then, breaking the verbal spar between the two and causing all three of them to look at her. Shrugging a shoulder, she said, “As entertaining as it is to watch you fucking tear him a new one, Briala, you are _all_ at fault.”

That made the elven ambassador jerk backwards in shock before she exclaimed, “I am not…” She then cut herself off mid sentence as Celene abruptly raised a hand.

“Enough!” snapped the Empress. “We will _not_ bicker amongst ourselves while Tevinter plots against our nation!” She then turned her head towards Meryell and she met the older woman’s eye unflinchingly. “For the safety of the Empire, I _will_ have answers.”

“Tevinter?” repeated Gaspard, sounding stunned. His eyes turned from his cousin to Meryell and back again before he bowed his head. As he lifted a hand to touch his forehead, he murmured, “Sister, you fool.”

Celene held up a hand towards him then turned to look at Meryell. “You make a bold claim stating we are all at fault, Inquisitor,” she said quietly but there was _steel_ behind her tone. “I trust you are prepared to defend it?”

“Defend and _prove_ ,” she replied sharply, lifting her chin high as she stood up straight. She was shorter than all of them, even Briala, but Meryell wasn't about to let any of them intimidate her.

She had fought far worse than Orlesians.

“You, for example, Your Majesty,” Meryell began, gesturing towards the Empress, “allowed Gaspard the chance to sneak his men into the Palace. You _left_ an opening in your defenses, hoping he'd do something colossally fucking _stupid_ and he waltzed right into the trap.”

“Now see here,” began Gaspard but she whipped up a hand as her head snapped around towards him. Meryell bared her teeth and flicked her ears back sharply, daring him to keep going despite her threatening pose. His head arched back in response and he held up his hands in a gesture of open defense.

She let silence hang for a long moment before hissing, “No, _you, all of you_ , will listen to me. While you were plotting against each other, fighting like a bunch of dogs for fucking _scraps_ , I was protecting your asses.”

Meryell turned to stare hard at Briala as she added, “I was protecting your people. Protecting our _kin._ ”

Then she turned back to Celene and finished, “And I was protecting your subjects and investigating their murders when you and yours knew none the wiser until my people _told you_ that something had happened. You gave me reign to put my people into their place, to discover _who_ had taken their lives.” Meryell narrowed her eyes at the other woman. “You fucking _owe me_ , Your Majesty. And listening is part of the payment I request.”

“Now,” she went on, looking back at Gaspard as she lowered her arm and relaxed her stance, “comment on what _she_ did and not what _I_ said if you will, dear Duke.”

Gaspard huffed out a breath and crossed his arms before he said, “Allowing me to hang myself, Celene? That was duplicitous, even for you.”

Before the Empress could reply, Meryell wheeled on him. “And you _fell for it_.”

Smiling, she explained, “I met your mercenary captain as well, Gaspard. He had _quite_ a great deal to say before I sent him off to inquire about safe lodging for himself and his men from my Commander. Including, Your Grace, that you were ready to attack. _Tonight._ ”

“Clever move,” scoffed Briala. “If you were trying to get hanged for treason.”

Now Meryell turned on her fellow elf, raising a finger to thrust in her face. “Do not pretend like you weren't involved in this Maker damned _sham_ , Ambassador.”

“You speak of what Gaspard did and did not know,” she growled onward, “when you had their own ambassadors murdered and sent them each forged letters.”

Briala blinked in obvious surprise and Meryell smirked. “Oh, yes, I know a forgery when I see one. Especially after I spent weeks staring at letters from Gaspard alongside my own ambassador. Getting bored enough to study the lines of his handwriting was quite useful to me.”

There was silence for a moment then the elf lifted her chin and said proudly, “Even if I _did_ , you can't touch me.”

“I don't _need_ to touch you, Briala,” she replied coldly. “All I need to do is reveal to them that you and Celene were lovers when she _burned_ Halamshiral’s alienage.”

Meryell had been _furious_ when she had learned that. Furious at Celene _and_ Briala as well as the loss of life. She knew too well what elves of an alienage faced in life and if she hadn't managed to get out, that could have been _her_ if South Reach had gone the same way. Or if she hadn't been born in Ferelden at all.

“And that,” she finished sharply, “is only a _part_ of the secrets the Inquisition has found while here.”

There was a deafening silence that spanned several breaths then Celene said, “You have made your point, Inquisitor. What is it you want?”

“The _rest_ of my payment,” she replied.

Stepping away from them, Meryell faced outward towards the edge of the balcony and sighed, musing her words for a moment. For how to get them to do what they _needed_ to do. Then she turned back towards them and began, “You three are some of the best minds in the Empire. Imagine for a moment what the three of you working _together_ could do for the Empire. Instead of fighting over it like a lot of starving dogs.”

“You are...remarkably optimistic, Inquisitor,” Celene said, her head tilted curiously back. “Do you truly believe that we could set aside our differences?”

“It wouldn't be easy,” Meryell replied. “But...a hodgepodge lot of misfits stopped the Blight in Ferelden. I've got someone from every race, religion, and class in the Inquisition, from commoner to royal and mage to templar. Working together to fight the Breach, to fight this outcropping of Tevinter assholes who want to take what's _ours_.”

She stared at all of them in turned before saying harshly, “If _mages_ and _templars_ can forgive and move on together from the bloody fucking mess of their war, I think the three of you could stop trying to cut each other's throats and do something Maker damned useful.”

They just _looked_ at her in return for a moment before looking at each other. Briala frowned, shaking her head, before she said, “If we can agree to listen to each other…”

Gaspard scoffed, stroking his chin, saying, “Such is perhaps a stretch.” Then Meryell felt his gaze on her as he added, “The good of Orlais is worth the attempt, however difficult it may be. Do you not agree, cousin?”

“I concur,” Celene replied, her eyes sharp behind her mask. “We require...an explanation, however.”

“A position in your cabinet,” offered Briala with a vague gesture. “It solves why he would be nearby and gives him a place of power. Part of your _accord_ to cease the fighting.”

The Empress nodded slightly then looked at the ambassador. And Meryell realized she knew that look in the older woman’s eyes. Celene _still_ loved Briala.

“And for you, Ambassador?” she asked.

Briala pursed her lips then inclined her head slightly. “I will remain where I am, in the shadows,” she replied. Her eyes then flicked to Meryell as she added, “There are few who would accept my holding power as an equal to you. Thus we shall keep it quiet.”

And Meryell nodded slightly, knowing as well as Briala did that elves didn't _hold power._

“Wise,” commented Gaspard. “And we will no doubt stand with the Inquisition in its mission to remove the Breach from our skies.”

“We shall,” agreed Celene, folding her hands in front of her. “Will you stand with us, Inquisitor?”

Meryell glanced between each of them, more than a little shocked that it had _worked_ (but it truly working would take time to tell), before she nodded. “The Inquisition’s mission is to protect everyone as much as it is to seal the Breach,” she answered. “If Orlais stands with us, then we will stand with Orlais.”

That brought a nod from the Empress before she said, “Then come. The people need to heard that we have come to an accord.”

 _Fuck_ , thought Meryell as she followed Celene and Gaspard, barely listening to Briala’s mild protest of a speech happening right then.

_I just want to fucking sleep._

* * *

She drifted, feeling like she was floating through the air. It wasn't warm but it wasn't cold. Pleasant more than anything.

Distantly she thought she could hear voices but couldn't make out what they were saying.

Something moved her and she made a noise deep in her throat, turning deeper into the presence at her side. She heard a laugh, soft and quiet, in her ear and then a voice in her head.

_Cullen has come to take you to bed. He thinks of sweat and skin but then pushes it aside, knows that you are too tired. Now he only thinks of comfort, of carrying you away to where you will be safe. With him._

Meryell blinked, startled out of her sleep by the voice in her head, and moaned, “Cole…” She tried to burrow deeper into his shoulder, to go back to sleep since the exhaustion was dragging her down, but felt his hands pushing her away.

“She is half there, adrift like a boat without oars,” she vaguely registered him saying. There was a deep chuckle in response and then warmer, broader hands were gently grasping her shoulders. She shivered a little and there was some sort of movement beyond her limited perception.

Then warm fabric fell over her shoulders, so much of it that it encompassed her, enclosing her in delicious _heat_ and a familiar masculine smell that put her at deeper ease than she already was. Because Cole had her back. He would protect her.

And the man with warm hands and the deep chuckle…

“Cullen,” she whispered, clarity flickering in her head.

“Yes, dear thief,” he replied. Then _his_ arms were around her and she was lifted up, held snugly against his chest. She curled into him, burying her face in his shirt despite the slight dampness of it from being under his coat all night. “I'm taking you to bed.”

She made some kind of noise in acknowledgment of that and then everything else faded away but the fact that she was safe. As safe as she had been with Cole.

Safe as when she was with Folke.

Safe like the home of her childhood, comforted by the circle of her mother’s arms.

_Eth._

_Safe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the end of the main Halamshiral plotline. There's still one more night at the Winter Palace, however, since the Orlesians are never ones to stop a party after it's started. 51 and possibly 52 will be covering that chapter; depends on how 51 keeps going.
> 
> Now, until next Monday, I say adieu! I'll be pretty much out of pocket (mostly to save battery on my phone, not really from any actual lack of signal) and likely busy for the rest of the week at an SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism) event.
> 
> Oh, and if you're reading the Fragments that accompany this story, a new one is going to be posted right after I post this chapter.
> 
> Until next week!


	51. “This is not simply tired, Leliana.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the morning after the reveal of Grand Duchess Florianne's betrayal, Cullen has to deal with a situation and explain exactly why Meryell will be out of commission for the majority of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness! The end of the chapter hadn't quite sorted itself out last night (after a week of not wanting to write itself when I had time and the battery to do so while I was away at the event) and Cilera was asleep on the couch anyway. But, here she is, all ready and read for you and judged worthy by my most fantastic of roommates. Enjoy!

“Commander!  _ Commander! _ ”

Blinking open his eyes, Cullen laid in bed for a moment as he attempted to register what time it was. Judging by the light streaming in the windows it was still very early in the morning, early enough that he should have already been awake. Yet last night had been stressful to every party in the Inquisition and he'd had a moment of panic when no one had known where Meryell was hours after everything was settled.

Then he'd found her, sitting in the shadows on a bench out on one of the balconies, her head resting on Cole’s shoulder and one hand entwined with the boy's. And though he still had his own wariness around the spirit because he was  _ still _ perhaps too much a templar, he knew that Cole would keep her safe. She had been  _ safe. _

The panic had bled out of him on the ride back to Gaspard’s manor with Cassandra insisting on riding with him as protection. He had been too tired to argue with her. And too tired when he got back to their room to do more than remove their outer clothing, placing Meryell into the bed and climbing in behind her.

Extricating himself from the steady warmth of her body and sitting up, Cullen rolled his shoulders before he reached down for the pants he'd abandoned at the edge of the bed. Pulling them on, he called out, “A moment,” then grabbed the closest shirt - a nearly threadbare thing of his that Meryell insisted on keeping because  _ she _ liked wearing it. After he'd seen her in it, her body nearly visible beneath the thin fabric, he hadn't been all that inclined to argue with her decision.

Running a hand through his hair, he looked down at her and smiled before leaning over to pull the covers across her back. She made a contented little noise in response, burrowing deeper, and he bent down to kiss her cheek.

“Sleep well, dear thief,” he murmured. “You earned it.”

Cullen then straightened up, grabbed his socks and boots in one hand, and moved to open the door with a slight scowl. His gaze snapped immediately to the nervous, jittery looking young man who was standing in front of the door before turning towards the Fang who was currently standing post. Astrid winked at him with a cheeky grin on her broad face and greeted, “Morning, Commander. Apparently the Nightingale sent the little lad here with an important message for our Meryell. I told him she'd be dead to shit from Gil’s healing trick but he insisted he talk to  _ you _ then.”

“Hmm.”

“Comm-Commander,” stammered the poor boy, offering a shaky salute as Cullen stepped out of the room and closed the door as gently as possible. “The Nightingale said that she needed the Inquisitor now. That it's important to the state of the Inquisition.”

Snorting, Cullen sat his boots down and slowly pulled on his socks. “Leliana said that?” he asked. Then he glanced up at the boy and queried, “It's Harlan, isn't it?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Well, that's not going to happen, Harlan,” he gruffly commented. He stepped into his boots and tightened them around his shins before he fixed the young man with a hard stare. “No need to run back to her and tell her. I'll be telling her myself. You're to go back to whatever duty you were on before Leliana pulled you in as a messenger and  _ no one _ is to disturb the Inquisitor. Understand?”

Cullen then smiled thinly as he tilted his head towards Astrid. “She's going to make sure it stays like that too.”

“Just following the Captain’s orders,” the Anders woman proclaimed with a smirk. “He and our Meryell gave me reign to bust heads if I need to.” She cracked her knuckles dramatically and Harlan went white in the face before bolting down the hall. As soon as he was gone, she laughed and shook her head. “I suspect we just scared years off of that boy's life. You’d think one of the Nightingale’s lot would have more balls.”

“He’s one of her normal runners,” Cullen supplied. “Harlan may not have nerves like Leliana does but he’s loyal. And has a memory like a steel trap.” He then frowned and asked, “How long have you been standing post, Astrid? I seem to recall Dragos was here again when we came in last night.”

She nodded and crossed her arms, leaning her head back against the wall as she shrugged. “Few hours now. I replaced Dragos when dawn swung around and Kevan’s supposed to replace me sometime before noon for the evening shift. Then Rhiryd will be back on for the crossover shift.”

Cullen nodded and turned to look back at the door for a moment before he gave her a sharp nod. “As you were then.”

Astrid flashed another grin at him before she closed her eyes, saying, “Fuck off and go tell the Nightingale where she and the Empress can stuff their requests for a few more hours.”

“How do you know the message would be from the Empress?” he asked with an arched eyebrow, ignoring her crude direction. She didn't mean it as an insult - since curses were common parlance amongst the Fangs as he’d learned and their seriousness was more measured by tone of voice than anything else - so he let it pass.

“What else would be so important?” replied the woman with a shrug. She then made a vague shooing motion with the fingers of one hand and settled more heavily against the wall. At a glance, it looked like she was asleep with her eyes closed like that and in such a heavy slump but Cullen had seen her on the field at Haven. Not to mention having sparred with her when she wasn't off with a mix of Fangs and Inquisition on some mission.

Anyone who underestimated Astrid for her casual pose or gender deserved the beating they got in return.

Turning away from the door, Cullen headed down the hallway without saying anything else since there was little else to say. He had other things to deal with.

Striding down the halls in their wing until he reached Leliana’s door, he rapped his knuckles against it then frowned at the young woman who opened it. “Is she in?” he asked simply and the girl didn't even bother to reply,. Instead she merely stepped aside and opened the door wide to allow him entry.  As soon as he stepped inside, she shut the door behind him and then disappeared off into a small secondary room that their own room didn't seem to have. 

“Commander,” greeted Leliana from across the room, straightening up from the open window where a trio of ravens gathered on the sill to eat from her gloved hand. Then she turned and frowned. “The Inquisitor?”

“Asleep,” he replied sternly, crossing his arms over his chest. “And she'll stay that way until she wakes up on her own.”

Leliana’s eyes went flat at that and she hummed in a low tone as she turned back towards her birds. “Is that from her Commander or her worried lover?”

Bristling at the tone of her voice, Cullen straightened up and answered in a firm tone, “Both.”

“And what of the next time she is  _ tired _ ? Will you simply let her give into her exhaustion, let her take a day when we have no such luxuries?”

Narrowing his eyes at Leliana, Cullen worked his jaw in an attempt to keep his temper under check. Withdrawal exacerbated it, made him prickly and easily annoyed at the best of times, and it didn't help that he'd already been annoyed by the shouting at their door. He suddenly regretted the fact that the bag of dried elfroot roots Gil had given him were back in the room he'd just left.

Cullen had found that they not only helped stave off some of the pain of his headaches, but the distraction of chewing them tended to stave the edge off his temper. Especially when he thought he was about to lose it. Now he had only his firm will to keep him from yelling at Leliana.

“This is not simply  _ tired _ , Leliana,” he growled. “If you weren't aware, Gil worked magic on her last night to completely heal a wound she took. So as to not draw attention.”

He'd managed to wrangle a better explanation out of Folke that night, since Gil had retired after she was done with hours of healing. Folke also explained magic in a far less technical way than any Circle trained mage, using very little of the terms they used. Not that he didn't know the basics (he'd had to, as a templar) but the more difficult magic had terminology that only its specialists delved into.

And Gil was still a Circle mage despite her years out of it with the tendency still to sometimes explain things in ways that the common person couldn’t quite comprehend.

“The magic itself sends the body into high gear,” Cullen explained as he frowned darkly at her. “It then uses the energy created from that to rapidly heal a wound, usually in order to keep them from dying in the field. Yet there is still more energy left, which can't just be dissipated. It has to be used and after it is, it leaves the person it was cast upon completely exhausted. I was informed very sternly that to attempt to wake someone from that state before they’ve come to it themselves could cause damage.”

Leliana frowned and leaned back against the windowsill, folding her arms as she asked, “What sort of damage?”

“The irreparable sort. Folke related the story of one of the company who was woken early when their mages first developed the healing.” He paused deliberately before he finished, “The man was still able to serve for several years but he was never back up to the strength he had previously. His wounded leg started having problems it shouldn’t have as well as his body in general began to break down in ways it shouldn’t have at his age.”

_ That _ seemed to strike a chord with the woman and she frowned.

“How old was he?”

Cullen met her eyes harshly as he replied, “Barely past twenty. He made it five more years as a full serving member of the company before his leg gave out while in a shield wall. Nearly ended the lives of some of the others except for the quick work of the second line hauling him back and the first closing ranks.”

He’d been in a shield wall or two during his time in the Order - though it had been mostly during training - and knew how quick a weak man in the line could break the wall. If he hadn’t already been convinced by Folke’s vehement tone about not waking Meryell up before she woke up on her own, that story would have done the job.

“Not to mention,” he went on with a slight growl, “I’m certain that you remember the conversation we all got after she made it back to us after Haven.”

Leliana arched an eyebrow curiously then her lips pursed. After a moment, she nodded and said, “The Captain brought the mage that had healed her to us to relate her injuries before she was well enough to be back on her feet.”

“That was Gil,” supplied Cullen with a nod. He then tilted his head to the side and asked, “And do you recall what it was she was telling us about Meryell’s injuries?”

A frown was all he received in return for a moment then she sighed and closed her eyes. He nodded and then was a little surprise when they both said, “Her arm,” at the same time.

“She was concerned about the state of her arm,” Leliana went on, clearly recalling the conversation with enough of a prompt. “That if we began moving too early it would be detrimental to it healing from the strain and tearing that it was put through. Obviously that hasn’t been a problem.”

“Not one that she’s told others really,” he replied stonily. He knew that Meryell still occasionally had issues with her left shoulder, most frequently on colder days and nights when the joints stiffened up. It also happened often after she returned from being out in the field closing rifts and he’d spent a good amount of time both helping her stretch that arm as well as massaging the tense muscles. Which was merely fair since she had helped him sort of some of his own aches and pains on occasion besides the withdrawal related ones. “It’s not been a major issue but I would rather not take the chance of waking her exacerbating the effects of that injury. Wouldn’t you say the same?”

For a moment the only noise in the room was the gentle sound of rustling papers from the room the young woman had disappeared into and the soft  _ caws _ of the ravens as they settled on the windowsill to await their next orders. Then the spymaster nodded before she said, “It seems that neither I or nor the Empress took the Inquisitor quite seriously last night when she said that she would get up late today if she stopped moving.”

Cullen just tilted his head and asked, “Can we move it without insulting her? We could always send Josephine.”

Leliana arched a brow at that, scoffing, “We shall not send Josie to a meeting instead of the Inquisitor that  _ Meryell  _ was expressly  _ requested _ to attend, Commander. That would be an insult to the Empress. No, I will speak to her ladies and rearrange the time. Perhaps they can speak tonight at the ball when we attend for the final night’s festivities.”

He bit back a groan at the reminder that they had  _ another _ night of dealing with Orlesians and managed to nod. “I’m certain that she’ll be up before it comes time to make our way there,” he said. “Probably not happy to deal with them again tonight, but she’ll do it.”

“Though likely without as much grace as she put forward the past two nights.”

“She may not be playing quite the part she was playing then,” Cullen offered with a slight smile as her slightly mournful tone, “but she won’t do any deliberate damage to the Inquisition’s reputation.”

It didn’t look like she was quite convinced by that by Leliana still nodded and said, “Very well.” There was a final note to the two words and he nodded before saying a quiet goodbye, leaving the room before they could get into anything else.

It didn’t quite count as winning a verbal spar against the spymaster but he’d call it close enough for being able to correct her.

Running a hand through his hair as he walked back down the hall towards their room, Cullen sighed and began running a mental checklist through his head. If Meryell was going to be asleep for a large part of the day, then he needed to resort the standing watch on their room into something more than just one person. They couldn’t have their Inquisitor lying around helpless without anyone to defend her if things came to the worst.

Which things  _ shouldn’t _ since Grand Duchess Florianne was under arrest and Leliana was certain they had routed out the majority of her followers. One never knew when something might slip by, however.

Then he needed to get things rolling on their plans to get back to Skyhold. It wasn’t going to be a fun trip as snows had already started falling in the Frostbacks before they left but...anything was better than  _ Orlais. _

Chuckling to himself, Cullen nodded briefly at the still relaxed Astrid and stepped back into the room. As he closed the door behind him, he looked over at the bed and smiled. Meryell hadn’t moved an inch since he’d stepped out of the room and all he could see of her was an unruly tumble of brown hair escaping from the open folds of the blankets. He slowly made his way back around to his side of the bed and carefully sat down, turning slightly so he could brush a hand underneath the blankets to touch her bare shoulder.

This time she didn’t even stir the slightly at his touch, her breathing steady and sure as she slumbered on.

If he were a wise man, he’d get back into bed and doze back off until she woke up on her own. Then surprise her with the same type of actions that had led to that delightful morning after their first actual night together.  _ If _ he were wise...or free to be able to do such a thing.

Sighing, Cullen squeezed her shoulder then tucked the blankets deeper around her before he stood back up. Unfortunately he wasn’t able to just climb back into bed with her and forget about Orlesians or what needed to be done next or who needed to stand watch. She was the Inquisitor and he was her Commander and that fact unfortunately trumped whatever Meryell and Cullen might want to do.

Their time was not their own.

Not yet.

But maybe...maybe  _ someday _ …

“Melancholy old fool,” he muttered at himself. “Get your shit together.”

Shaking his head, Cullen pulled the thin shirt over his head and laid it back out where she might find it, over the back of one of the chairs in the room. Then he moved to where his baggage had been arranged in the room next to the armor stand they’d brought from Skyhold and pulled out a tunic. After that the padded gambeson went on and then his armor, one piece at a time, until he stood, fully kitted out as he might be on any day in Skyhold. It would have to just be removed later most likely and be replaced with another of those miserably choking jackets but, for now, he was going to feel like today was any other day.

He quickly straightened his hair into order, buckled his sword onto his belt, and then cast one final look across the room at the bed.

The Maker played a mean trick giving him the thing he wanted with the stipulation that most times he couldn’t do exactly what he wanted to do.

Yet he’d take the trick any day over the alternative of not having her.

Smiling, Cullen stepped back out into the hall and, with only a nod to Astrid, set out to do what needed to be done.

He was the Inquisitor’s Commander, in all the manner of ways one could take the statement, and he would see that she was safe.


	52. “Tomorrow we get to leave fucking Orlais.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After waking up from the exhaustion of the night before, Meryell recovers from the aftereffects of the spell during the few hours she has before the last night of the ball at Halamshiral. There she deals with an annoying conversation with Vivienne, a very strange interaction with Empress Celene, and then finishes off the night as she wishes she could every night: by spending time with Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for lateness. Life has been busy and this chapter was being a pain.

“About time you were awake, Poppet.”

Meryell frowned, blinking several times at the voice that she was fairly certain _wasn’t_ supposed to be in their room, and wrinkled her nose up for a moment. Then she slowly tilted her head to peer over the blankets towards the end of the bed where her father sat in one of the chairs with his stockinged feet up on the footboard. He had a book propped on his knee and his spectacles perched on the end of his nose, looking for all the world like he was just having a relaxing time.

Other than the fact that she immediately noticed that he had his fucking _sword_ laid across his lap. When he normally had it on his belt or hidden away unless he absolutely had to use it.

“You’re armed?” she asked blearily, closing her eyes for a moment. The exhaustion was still heavy upon her, though more in an aftereffect of the spellwork from the night before and less anything else. That and her left wrist and arm ached, same as it always did the day after closing a rift.

Just as it had done since it had been sliced open during those first days in the Hinterlands.

“Just in case your Nightingale missed a Venatori or two,” Folke replied with a shrug. He moved one hand to rest on the hilt of his sword as he went on, “ _Isha’len_ asked me to sit in here with you while he handled some things. Said I was the one he trusted most with you and everything.”

It took more than a bit for his words to cycle through her head and fully register. When they finally did, she asked, “Have they found any lingering assholes?”

“Not that I've heard,” he replied, “but you know as well as I do that just because you haven't heard a thing, doesn't mean it doesn't still exist.”

“Then why…?”

Folke pursed his lips and replied, “Because Cullen not only has a responsibility to keep you safe as your Commander but also as your lover. With you unable to defend yourself, he took adequate precautions.”

“And adequate precautions included you sitting in here with me armed?”

“Kevan and Rebecca are at the door.”

Meryell just blinked. Kevan was a former member of the Denerim City Guard who’d had his knee shattered only a few years after the Fifth Blight. He'd healed well enough from the injury thanks to a mage but the Captain of the Guard had considered him out of commission and dismissed him. Kevan had bounced through merc companies after that until he'd ended up with them and stuck. And Rebecca was the youngest daughter of Bann Trevelyan of Ostwick as well as a rebellious former templar trainee. She'd fled before she could take the vows and fell in with the company, impressing some of their lot in a bar brawl. Meryell still remembered when the Bann’s men came hunting for her and Arnald told them in the most incredibly polite manner how far they could fuck off.

Kevan was _mean_ with a pair of dual swords, practically a whirlwind on the field despite his still somewhat gimpy knee. Rebecca was six years of fury from templar training in one short form and wielded a glaive like it was an extension of herself.

If anyone happened to get through that door right then, they practically _deserved_ to kill her for making it the through those two alive.

“Did...did the Captain think there was a serious threat to my life to give us Kevan _and_ Rebecca?” she finally asked. It was the only reason she could think of that two of their fiercest would get assigned to the door.

“You know that Captain takes the Game seriously,” replied her father as he leaned back into his chair. “For all we knew, some noble idiot might get it into his head to try and take you out in order to garner favor with Corypheus. So no one was willing to take chances.”

“Gods save us from idiots,” grumbled Meryell. She then shifted and asked, “So am I allowed to get out of bed? Leave the room?”

“So long as we're with you and we don't wander off the property.” Folke then grinned and asked, “Got to piss?”

Snorting, she replied, “Like a fucking _bitch_.”

He burst out laughing at that and set his book on the end of the bed, standing up to slide his sword through the frog clasp hanging from his belt and then reached out to take her hands. It took a minute for her legs to recall how to coordinate but after that she was able to stand on her own.

“How about after you take care of business we get something to eat?”

As her belly growled immediately at the mention of food, Meryell grinned at him.

“That sounds like a damned good idea, _baba_.”

“Then hop to, Poppet. We've only got a few hours until you have to be back here to get ready.”

She groaned at the reminder that there was another night of the party that she was expected to attend then started shuffling towards the folding screen that hid the room's chamber pot.

Piss. Clothes. Food. In that order.

Then she might actually start getting her head together to deal with fucking ass-kissing nobles again.

* * *

“My dear, it is utterly appalling that you should be standing here looking so still and boring.”

Meryell stiffened at the sound of Vivienne’s voice coming from behind her. She always felt like the tone of the woman’s voice was grating against her spine, dragging and scraping like a blade against bone. Likely because most of the First Enchanter’s comments were usually scathing and dryly cutting when she happened to hear them.

She took a deep breath then forced her shoulders to relax. Smiling grimly, she turned her head to look up at the taller woman as Vivienne came to stand next to her at the railing and replied, “I don't get the kind of rush you and Leliana or even Josephine get by being here at court, Iron Lady.”

Vivienne just smiled in return, though hers was as elegant and poised as the rest of her. _Fake_ , screamed every one of Meryell’s instincts. That was perhaps what bothered her most about being in the middle of everything at court instead of outside the bounds of it. The fakery was even more apparent from the inside than without.

“That is a rather surprising thing for you to say, Inquisitor.”

“How’s that?”

The mage tilted her head slightly, a curious gesture more than anything. “Why by your attitude over these past two night’s, darling. I dare say that I was _most_ impressed with how you handled yourself.” She then sniffed as she added, “Before you made such a scene last night before the Empress.”

Was that...almost a compliment?

Meryell turned her smile into a hard-edged grin as she shot back, “I _like_ causing scenes, Madame.”

“So I am aware,” Vivienne replied delicately. “And yet you were quite adept at navigating the court. You were and are still the talk amongst many, though it has taken a turn for the...uncouth.”

Snorting, she said, “Obviously you missed some of the remarks I caught then.” Meryell fixed the other woman with a fierce gaze as she growled, “Humans, especially noble ones, very rarely respect an elf. An elf with _power_? Well, that’s a fucking thing that they’d rather not have around if they can help it.”

“I am honestly surprised you allowed them to get away with such things.”

“Not the first time or the last I'll hear ‘em. Not to mention that it would have looked bad for me to murder half the court when we were trying to save Orlais from falling apart.”

Vivienne made a hum of acknowledgement before asking, “Did you at least take note of their masks, my dear?”

Frowning, Meryell fully turned towards the woman, leaning on the railing looking over the main floor of the ballroom. “I wasn't under the impression that you cared for my health and wellbeing. Color me fucking surprised.”

The mage laughed in return - another fake, another show for the crowd - before she replied, “It is less care for your wellbeing, darling, than that of the Inquisition. To lose you in any fashion would be a blow to the organization, not only because of your Mark but because they believe in you.” Vivienne then smiled tightly then. “And perhaps I see why if you were able to fool them all well as you did the court.”

“I didn't _fool_ our men,” snapped Meryell, bristling at the implication that she'd pulled one over on their fighting forces. You didn't fuck with the morale or backbone of fighting men and women. You didn't tear away whatever they believed in. Not unless you _wanted_ them to collapse. “They saw my actions and judged me for that. Found me worthy of following for some fucking reason beyond the Herald bullshit.”

Vivienne arched an elegant brow at that.

“I can perhaps see how they would find your...inelegant...nature charming in its own way, darling,” she said lightly. Then her expression hardened as she went on, “An insult to you as Inquisitor should not be allowed to stand, of course. I am certain your advisors might agree with me.”

Meryell just narrowed her eyes at Vivienne and hissed, “I will _not_ be some fucking errant child playing at being a tyrant, lashing out at whoever or whatever draws my ire on every hour. I'm not some Dalish who never met a _shemlen_ in my life, Iron Lady.” She paused for a moment, her hands curling into fists, then plowed on, “I'm a filthy fucking alienage _brat_ . I've had slurs thrown at me since I was still a babe in arms, before I'd even thought of snitching my first pretty bauble. I can handle a few Orlesian gasbags blowing smoke at me. The second they draw steel or harm one of mine, _that's_ when I'll retaliate.”

There was silence for a long moment after she finished then Vivienne chuckled. An _honest_ , amused chuckle.

“You have fire, Inquisitor, I will give you that,” said the Enchanter. Then she flashed a brief, chilly smile. “But you will need more than fire to beard lions in their den.”

First a compliment in the vaguest of senses and then an insult. Par for the course with Vivienne.

“That's where you're wrong, Iron Lady,” she replied with a smirk, relaxing her hands. “I've fought lions, remember? You don't _beard_ a lion in his den.”

Meryell leaned forward, tilting her chin up to meet the Enchanter eye to eye, and finished, “You draw them out and you take them _on your terms_.”

“And what _are_ your terms, my dear?”

“Now, now, Madame de Fer,” she purred in reply, dropping into the accent she'd kept up through the first two nights of the ball to just give it a ‘proper’ ring for shits. “That would be giving up the game before we've even started playing with the ball.” Meryell winked at the taller woman then before turning away, completely _done_ with the conversation.

She didn't make it far before two arms tucked themselves through hers and she was very nearly swept off her feet by Leliana and Josephine. Hissing out a surprised breath, Meryell hissed, “Are we in a rush to get fucking somewhere?”

Josephine flashed an annoyed look at the curse but her voice was calm as she replied, “You still have a meeting with the Empress, if you recall, Inquisitor.”

“Shit.”

She really, quite honestly didn't want to talk to Celene at all. Mostly because how she'd talked to them the night before probably hadn't actually gone over all that well. She couldn't imagine they had many people who'd tell them straight up that they'd fucked up.

But she really _had to_ do it.

“Can we just...not?”

“No,” replied Leliana sternly.

Sighing instead of groaning like she really wanted to, Meryell squared her shoulders and growled, “Fine. Sure. Let's got talk to an Empress.”

“Do try not to embarrass the whole Inquisition,” commented Leliana sternly.

“What if I only embarrass _half_ of the Inquisition?”

Josephine sighed, lifting a hand to press her fingers briefly against the bridge of her nose, then hissed, “Inquisitor, _please_.”

Chuckling, Meryell patted her two female advisors on the arms where she could reach and dropped her voice to not be overheard as she said, “Maker’s sodden cock, take a breath you two. I'm not going to embarrass us or do anything that will make Celene declare war on us or anything.”

Both of them audibly breathed a sigh of relief at that.

“Though I may or may not call her an idiot again for this shit,” she commented slyly.

“For the love of the Maker, _don't_ ,” replied Leliana sharply before she and Josephine pulled away. As they dropped back behind her, Meryell looked forward to the door ahead of them, a private room guarded by the Imperial Guard.

Heading into the jaws of the lion alone. Thankfully she wasn’t trying to beard this particular one.

The thought made her smile and straighten up, shoulders straight and chin high. It wasn't the first time she'd faced something alone. Probably wasn't going to be the last either.

So she smiled at one of the men standing at the door, who knocked on it before returning to his post. As it opened, Meryell stepped inside and found Celene standing across the room, back towards her as she faced a low-burning fire on the room’s hearth. She nodded to the guard who had opened the door then moved forward towards the middle of the room.

Stopping there, she performed a perfect curtsey (mercilessly taught to her by Dana, a now retired Fang who had been a professional at playing as something she wasn't) and said quietly, “Your Imperial Majesty.”

And then Celene turned towards her and her heart _dropped_.

The Empress of Orlais stood before her with _no mask on_.

Without the mask she could clearly tell Celene’s age, fine lines around her eyes giving it away despite the efforts of powders and whatever else the nobility used. And she could also tell that this was a woman who had no fear of _her_ just as _she_ had no fear of Celene.

“Inquisitor, please, sit,” she said as she gestured at the two long couches before the fire. Between them was a low table and it was on that that Celene’s mask sat, the metallic surface of it gleaming and reflecting the light of the fire. “Let us set masks aside. I would wish us to speak as equals.”

“Equals?” she repeated even as she moved forward, reaching both hands up to her face. One held the delicate frame of the mask while the other tugged at the ties and then it was in her hand. As she came around the edge of the couch, Meryell sat it gently down on the table before lowering herself down to sit. “I don't believe that _Inquisitor_ equates in any way to _Empress_. I certainly don't have a whole country at my beck and call. Or one depending on me for that matter.”

Celene just smiled at that as she folded her hands in her lap.

“Yet you do have the entirety of a growing organization depending upon you,” she pointed out. “Do you not?”

“True.” Frowning, Meryell began, “If I can be blunt again, Your Majesty…”

The Empress merely nodded with a slight shift of her shoulders that read as _go on_ and Meryell hissed, “Why the fuck are we meeting alone for?”

“Because I wished to speak to you,” she replied. “Privately, without protocol between us. To, perhaps, learn something of the woman who saved my country. Since it seems that I learned nothing from our first introduction.”

“That's all?”

Celene smiled then, a small quiet thing but that hid infinite amusement in the tilt of her lips.

“And perhaps inquire of how much of an embarrassment my poor cousin made of himself in foolishly pursuing you. A wrongly made gamble when anyone can see that you and your Commander are so deeply in love.”

Flushing and unable to stop it, Meryell grinned through it at the other woman. “So,” she began slowly, “you brought me here for a gossip?”

“If you will indulge me, Inquisitor.”

“ _Oh,_ Your Majesty, have I got some embarrassing shit I will _gladly_ share with you.”

* * *

Hours later, with a slightly surreal conversation with Empress Celene behind her as well as being informed that Morrigan would be joining them at Skyhold, Meryell sat on one of the balcony railings and stared up at the stars. She idly traced their patterns with her fingers, murmuring both the Tevene names under her breath as well as those her father had taught her that the Dalish had patterned across the sky. A few were the same, remnants of a crossover or taking over of elven culture that was so far in the past no one recalled it's exact origins.

As usual, she lingered on the shape of Fervenial or Fervanis, the Oak. It had been her father’s favorite and he had told her it's true name was _Shiva’dahl_ or the Tree of Duty. A reminder to do what was right by his own mind and by his family before all else, that had been what he'd proclaimed his duty.

She'd always tried to follow that, doing what was best for herself and her new family first. Hadn't always succeeded but trying was the important part.

Turning her head, she found her favorite low on the horizon, almost to the point of slipping beyond it. Tenebrium, Shadow, the owl that flew the night skies. _The giver and seeker of knowledge and understanding_ , she remembered her father whispering in her ear as they sat on an alienage roof. _He is Eolas the Wise. A good choice to follow, ara dharlin. Trust him and he will never guide you wrong_.

He's been right on the last at least. Every time she had followed the constellation in the night sky or pointed in its direction when it was beyond her sight, she had always ended up somewhere she needed to go. It wasn't always her original destination but it always _mattered_.

And right now, if she recalled her maps correctly, Eolas flew towards Skyhold.

Towards _home_.

She smiled at the thought of following him back home, back to where she was _supposed to be_ (because fuck knew when she'd come to that feeling but that was how she now felt). Then the balcony door opened behind her and she turned sharply, one hand falling to where her stiletto was still strapped underneath her skirts. Thanks to her night vision, she saw instantly that it was Cullen and relaxed.

“ _Vhen’an_ ,” she greeted softly. “What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied as he moved towards her. As soon as he came level with her, resting a hand on the railing behind her and the other on her knee, he leaned in for a kiss. Meryell obliged willingly and smiled when he drew away to add, “I came out here looking for you.”

“Worried?” she asked as she laid her hand over his on her knee.

“Not with the amount of men I have guarding rooftops and shadowy places.” She arched an eyebrow at that statement because she _knew_ better than to think he was that easily reassured and he sighed. “Alright, maybe still a _little_ worried but that's a given any day with you,” he grumbled. Then Cullen shifted his hand, turning it over so he could curl his fingers around hers, and added, “I merely haven't seen you all day and wanted some time for myself before someone stole you away again.”

She smiled at that, saying, “However can I argue with that?”

He smiled back and replied, “Well I certainly hope you can't.” Then he tilted his head to the side and asked, “How was the meeting with the Empress?”

Shaking her head, Meryell squeezed his hand as she replied, “Very strange. She just fucking wanted to _gossip_ with me, Cullen. That and talk. It was basically just a sort of _getting to know me_ type meeting and it was weird.”

“Well,” he mused, “at least it wasn't anything serious.”

“True.”

Silence fell between them after that, only the distant sounds of the garden fountains below and the chatter of the ball inside breaking it. Yet it wasn't an uncomfortable sort of silence. It was a pleasant sort, the kind of languid content silence that she often shared with Folke. The only noise between them, in fact, was the rustle of the fabric of skirts when she shifted from her seat sideways on the railing to one more firmly on it. Cullen stepped forward as she spread her knees wide, which was difficult with the skirts, and pulled her forward so her chest was flush against his.

As he wrapped his arms loosely around her, she noted, “You're blushing.”

“Dozens of people at any one time no doubt directly behind me watching us through the glass,” he replied. “And here I am standing between your legs.”

Meryell hummed and leaned heavily forward against him, sliding one hand around his side and then down underneath the hem of his jacket. He yelped in a _very_ unmanly fashion as she gave a brief squeeze to his arse before hissing, “ _Meryell._ You're going to _encourage_ them!”

Narrowing her eyes, she snarled, “Not if they don't want to get punched in the throat. I'm not letting some Orlesian noble who's really no better a lay than a two-bit _whore_ put their hands on you again.”

Cullen arched his eyebrows as his entire face went bright red before he repeated. “Two-bit whore?”

“One you barely pay two coppers for?”

“Oh.”

She laughed at his expression then brought her hand back around to lay it and the other against his chest. After a moment or two, she batted her eyelashes coyly and purred, “ _Vhen’an._ ”

“Yes?” he replied, his voice slightly muffled as he rested his chin atop her head, mouth hidden slightly by the threads of her hair.

“How badly do you want to say _fuck those watching_ and take me right here? Over this balcony rail? Press me against it and ruck up my skirts and just fuck me silly?”

There was a distinct _twitch_ of interest from the front of his pants and Cullen himself groaned her name. His curled his hands into fists from where they'd gently rested at the small of her back and growled, “ _Love_.”

Meryell just smiled and slowly ran her hands up over his chest, letting them slide across the fabric. When she reached the high, stiff collar, she brushed her fingernails against the soft skin and stubble just under his chin. “ _Garas, aman na’mis_ ,” she breathed and could have _cackled_ when his breathing fucking stuttered.

“Did you...did I translate that right?” he asked as he leaned back to blink down at her.

“Did you?” she replied teasingly.

“Something about you...sheathing...my blade?”

Grinning up at him, she nodded before asking, “Want to leave early?”

“Maker’s breath, _yes_ ,” he replied, in a tone that was half desire and half exasperation (likely from his continued followers). Then he sighed and took a step back, just enough to put distance between them. “Though I'm going to need a moment to be able to walk properly.”

Chuckling, she just nodded and tilted her head back, content to return to her star gazing while sitting in the warm circle of his arms. After a moment she felt his breath on her throat before he planted a brief, soft kiss there and asked, “What were you doing out here anyway?”

“Seeing how many of the elven constellations I remembered,” replied Meryell. “ _Babae_ taught them to me alongside the common names and shapes of them. Then I found our favorites.”

She felt his arm move then, fingers finding hers and sliding along them until his hand engulfed her own fully. Then he slowly raised both of their hands up towards the sky, fingers pointed upward. “Show me?” he asked softly.

Smiling, she stretched her arm out past his and he gently braced her elbow as she pointed out the constellations. She repeated the descriptions her father had given her of the pair after saying their Tevene names since those were the ones he would know. When she'd traced the last of Eolas, fingers curving around invisible tail feathers, he smiled and kissed her softly.

“Let's go.”

There was no scene as they left nor was there anyone who stepped up to try and talk to them or get in their way. They simply moved through the crowd arm-in-arm without pausing or let anyone take their attention away from their goal and the crowd _parted_ like a heated blade through butter. She briefly tweaked Leliana’s elbow as they passed her and the spymaster merely smiled, nodding at them, before she turned back to a conversation she was having with what was obviously one of her spy’s.

Then they were out in the courtyard and strode straight away to the stable. The Inquisition members who were staying with their horses and carriage to keep an eye on them instantly straightened up, asking if they needed the latter, but Cullen merely gestured at his horse. In a most impressive flurry of movement that had Meryell rather impressed and amused at the same time (because it was _obvious_ they were showing off), the lot of them had three horses saddled including Cullen’s.

“We’ll escort you back to the estate, Inquisitor, Commander,” one of them who was wearing heavy armor declared with a sharp salute. The woman then flicked her eyes between them and stammered, “N-not that you aren’t both capable but…”

Cullen just nodded in reply and smiled as he said, “The Ambassador would no doubt kill you if you let us leave without a guard.”

“Not to mention what the Nightingale would do, Commander!” exclaimed the other who was accompanying them. He grinned and saluted before saying, “Rathe Chadwyn, at your service, Inquisitor. This lovely lady is Anice Vagyl.”

Meryell chuckled and said, “Good to meet you, Rathe, Anice.” She then lifted her skirts, bundling them up into one hand as she reached for the saddle of Cullen’s beast of a horse. It was far taller than her own but it wasn’t the first time that she’d had to get into the saddle of a horse that outsized her. Before she could pull herself up and hook her foot into the stirrup, however, Cullen’s hands came to rest on her waist.

“May I, dear thief?” he asked softly in her ear.

“Only on one condition,” she replied, turning to smirk at him. When he just blinked at her, Meryell’s smirk turned into a full on grin as she said, “Us. Wall. Your blade.”

He went bright red in response but his eyes were bright with a different emotion as he breathed, “Whatever the lady wishes.” She beamed at him in return and then squeaked in surprise as he practically _launched_ her up into the saddle. Scooting forward to make room for him, Meryell gathered her skirts around her legs until he seated himself then leaned back against his chest. Cullen gathered up the reins as he kissed the top of her head before he nodded to Rathe and Anice that they were ready.

Halfway through their ride, she laughed abruptly and tilted her head back to look up at him. “You know what’s _better_ than the fact that we fucked off early from that shit to do some fucking of our own?”

Rathe made a choking noise from where he rode behind them out of her line of sight as he overheard her comment and Cullen’s neck was red as he replied softly, “No, love, but do enlighten me.”

Grinning, Meryell said, “Tomorrow we get to leave fucking _Orlais_.”

From somewhere Anice snorted a laugh as Cullen shook his head and wrapped his arm more securely around her waist. He then nodded and bent to kiss her as he breathed, “But then we have to go back to work. You to the Exalted Plains and I back to Skyhold with everyone else. It’s going to be a lonely trip back.

“Then I guess we’re just going to have to be extra thorough,” she replied with a laugh. “One of us isn’t walking right tomorrow and it’s not going to be _me_ ,” Meryell then hissed, keeping her voice low but still challenging.

“Is it not?” he asked and _there_ was that confidence, that _surety_ that was firmly set into him when dealing with his men but less present between them. Cullen’s arm tightened around her briefly and then he whispered in her ear in a low growl, “We’ll just see about that, _vhen’an_.”

_Oh._

Oh, she was _so_ not walking right in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvhen/Elven Translations**
> 
>  
> 
> garas, aman na’mis - come to me, I shall sheathe your blade


	53. "So you want me to take your luck?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ball at Halamshiral is over but that doesn't mean that the work is done. No matter how she might want to leave Orlais and head back to Skyhold with Cullen, she can't. So she makes do with what she little she has and keeps moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late. Again.
> 
> I partly blame life being busy. The other half is I've been working on finally finishing a fandom RP I've been working on on-and-off since 2013.
> 
> Hopefully since I know mostly where the next chapter is going, it'll be on time.

The morning after the official end to the festivities at Halamshiral was filled with a mix of simply laying in bed, skin bare against skin, and slow lovemaking. It felt like Cullen had explored every part of her with his hands as they laid there in soft touches that lingered against her skin. As if he were memorizing her to remember forever (or at least until she returned to Skyhold).

Then Josephine knocked on their door and said it was time.

Slowly they had dragged themselves out of bed and cleaned up, washing each other with the chill water of the basin left in their room. Then they had dressed, though the process had been continually stilted and paused because of wandering hands and languid kisses.

At one point they'd even ended up back against the door where they started everything the night before, Cullen growling as he pinned her against it. Meryell had arched her back, her still bare breasts brushing against the fabric of his gambeson, and moaned as he'd sucked at her throat. They'd both heard an embarrassed squeak come from the other side of the door and then Rhiryd’s deep voice comment about how they'd been at it all night.

_ That _ particular mabari was out of the pen for certain then. Varric was now going to have to figure out when they'd started actually doing stuff to award that bet and neither of them were going to help him with that.

Not being punctual and embarrassment thankfully hadn't stopped Cullen from finishing what he'd started. Though he had abandoned the door at that point, despite her protesting. His solution involved the wall on the opposite side of the room, however, and she'd giggled as he hissed  _ You wanted your bare skin on Orlesian walls one more time, didn't you? _

They had eventually finished dressing and as Meryell tugged her dagger harness on over her armor, she felt Cullen’s fingers brush her arm. Finishing the buckles of at least the shoulders before she turned, she blinked then she found his expression starkly serious.

“ _ Vhen’an _ ?”

“I've been wanting to give you this but haven't found the time,” he said softly. “I wanted to do it somewhere else but...well, we have a hard enough time getting time to ourselves, let alone enough for a personal trip to the backend of Ferelden. Plus me becoming ill and everything surrounding that...”

Tilting her head curiously, Meryell murmured, “Cullen, you're rambling. Is something wrong?”

He shook his head immediately and quickly said, “No, no, nothing's wrong.” Then he sighed, shoulders heaving underneath his mantle, and reached for her hands. She felt the brush of the leather of his gloves against her palm since she hadn't yet donned her own gloves as he took her hand in his and then the smooth, cool surface that was recognizably a coin. “My brother gave this to me when I left for training. I'm certain it just happened to be what he had in his pocket but he said it was for luck and...I was leaving. It was all I was going to have of him for who knew how long.”

“Aren't templars supposed to not have such things?” she asked, putting just a touch of teasing into her words. “Faith seeing you through shit and all?”

“Right,” he agreed with a low chuckle.

Meryell shook her head and smiled. “Look at you, breaking the rules before you even got into training.  _ Scandalous _ .”

Cullen laughed at that and nodded before saying, “I used to be very good at following rules up until a year ago.” He then shook his head and turned his hand so they could both see the coin now resting in her palm. “I survived the Blight, the abominations in the Tower, Kirkwall, Haven, a lyrium attack. So, I can't help but believe that maybe it's helped a little, that it maybe really is lucky.”

“I can believe that,” she murmured. She was astounded that he'd survived all that he had sometimes too. Especially the Tower, since she knew several veteran templars more than twice his age at the time had given into the demons there.

He smiled then and said, “Humor me, dear thief?” When she nodded, he closed her fingers over the coin and she jerked with surprise.

“You want... _ me? _ ”

Nodding, he said softly, “You constantly walk into danger. And Maker knows we don't know what all you might face in the field before this is over. A little luck can't hurt.” Cullen’s face crumpled then, fear and sadness warring for dominance on his features. “If I...I don't know what I'd do if I lost you.”

Meryell blinked then lifted her Marked hand, cupping his cheek with it. He briefly turned his face into her palm, nose brushing the gash-not-gash across her hand and causing it to glow faintly green in response.

“So you want me to take your luck?” she asked.

“I did say humor me.”

She snorting then asked, “What about  _ your _ luck?”

Cullen chuckled and replied, “I don't need luck at the moment. Gil would just bully me back to health or shoo anything bad that happened away like an errant child.”

That made her laugh because Gil probably  _ could _ then she frowned. “You really want me to take it?”

“Please.” His tone was low,  _ desperate _ , and ached with a force that she could physically feel. Meryell then pulled her hand from his and tucked the coin away into one of the pouches on her belt. Then she braced her hand against his chest and rose up on her toes. He obliged by ducking his head to meet her kiss and then his hand clutched at the back of her head, turning the kiss from soft to a touch desperate.

When they finally separated, she breathed, “I'll keep it safe,  _ vhen’an. _ ”

“I'd rather  _ it _ keep  _ you _ safe,” he replied, resting his forehead against hers. His eyes closed as he let out a breath before saying, “ _ Ar lath ‘ma, vhen’an. Ena...ena arla... _ shit, what's the _...eth. Ena arla eth. _ ”

Smiling and  _ proud _ \- so proud that her heart hammered against her ribs - at his successful Elven, Meryell replied, “I will, always.  _ Ar lath ‘ma. _ ”

He just smiled and they kissed again: a slow, languid thing that felt like it was entirely a reassurance of  _ you're here, you're safe, you'll come back home _ . Then they finally separated and finished their preparations, strapping on the last bits of armor and weapons and securing their luggage tight before they opened the door.

Rhiryd grinned at them, Avvar sensibilities about sex being much looser than a lot of the rest of Thedas, and Josephine turned pink across the cheeks. After a moment of silence, the big man scoffed and grumbled, “Why turn red? All thought long ago that they were together.”

“Because not everyone can be as sensible as the Avvar, Rhiryd,” replied Meryell with a smile. As he laughed, she turned towards Josephine and asked, “Everyone else is ready to leave?”

That seemed to startle the ambassador back out of wherever her mind had gone and she gave herself a slight shake before replying. “We’re just beginning to put together the luggage to begin our trip back to Skyhold. We thought that perhaps you might wish to begin your trip to the Exalted Plains before the rest of us left since it will be a while longer before that happens.”

She then seemed to gain back what composure she’d lost - who knew Josie would lose her shit at them having at it against a door - and arched an eyebrow as she asked, “Of course, so long as you both are done  _ cavorting _ about your room.”

Meryell grinned at that and said, “Just giving Gaspard enough to remember us by.”

“ _ Please _ tell me you didn’t do anything to the room.”

Cullen chuckled, placing his hands on her shoulders just as she was opening her mouth, and said quickly, “We did nothing to the room, Josephine, I can assure you.”

That had the ambassador breathing a sigh of relief and Meryell started to open her mouth again, to make a comment about how they might not have left anything physical behind themselves but she  _ had _ left one of Sera’s very elaborate drawings of her and Cullen somewhere for a servant to find with Gaspard’s name on it. In a forged hand, of course, because she wasn’t fucking getting caught leaving it in her own handwriting. It was really a pity that she wasn’t going to get to see his face.

Served him right for leering at her like he had been and actually expecting that he could convince her to make a marriage of allegiance or some other such shite.

Cullen’s grip tightening on her shoulders, however, stopped her and she looked sulkily up at him. He smiled and bent to whisper in her ear, “If you want yours and Sera’s little bit of fun to not be found, I’d keep quiet. Josephine would  _ scour _ the room for it herself if she knew you were leaving that, let alone  _ kept it _ .”

Honestly she'd been surprised that  _ he _ had agreed to let them do it when she'd told him about it but, then again, he’d been angry at the idea of her on the Duke’s arm.

Pouting a little, Meryell nodded and said, “Well then, I suppose we’d best hop to. Rhiryd?”

The big man shrugged where he leaned against the door and replied, “I wait for servants,” as he tipped his head towards the still open room. When she started to say that he probably didn’t have to stay and guard their belongings like that - the  _ idea _ of her own company brother doing such was a little embarrassing because he was worth more than that - he fixed her with a hard stare.

“Recall Markham?” he asked, his tone darkly serious. “The Crow?”

Shuddering, Meryell winced and tipped her head forward in acquiescence. “Point made, Rhiryd,” she said softly. Then she reached out towards him and added, “Then this is probably the last I’ll see you until I make it back to Skyhold. Tell Sister Cecilia that I still remember she’s supposed to sing one of my favorites around the campfire sometime when I can make it down the damned hill.”

Rhiryd chuckled and engulfed her hand in his own as he reached out to grip her wrist in a warrior’s grasp. “I will remind,” he assured, with a smile that softened his rough features. “She has sung practice to me for it.”

She smiled at that, saying, “I look forward to hearing it when I can then. And you keep yourself safe.”

“You are one walking to danger!” he boomed with a laugh. Then he waved his hand at them and said, “Go, go. Need to ride.”

“Fine, fine,” grumbled Meryell at the mild scolding. She then looked at Josephine and asked, “So where are we at?”

“Out front,” replied the ambassador as she began to lead them down the halls of Gaspard’s mansion, merely by chance of walking ahead of them. “It is rather...public...so I would ask if you both could perhaps not cause a scene? Particularly given what Gaspard asked of you while we were here, Inquisitor.”

Josephine turned her head back towards them, her face serious but understanding as she went on, “I know you made no personal promises to him but he did make several subtle public gestures. It is best to not completely alienate him as an ally.”

“I understand, Josie,” she said, smiling at the other woman reassuringly. “I know enough about making deals to know to not piss off someone who didn’t get his end of a bargain despite never being promised one.” Then she glanced up at Cullen, who had his jaw clenched a little tight and his eyes serious. “We already said our goodbye’s anyway.”

He turned to smile down at her at that before reaching for her hand. They briefly tangled their fingers in the safety provided by Josephine’s back and walked hand-in-hand for several strides until they reached one of the main halls of the manor. Then they both sighed and let go of each other, though they still walked close enough together that anyone in Orlais could probably get the hint that they were together.

No one could ever say she didn’t  _ try _ to be decent in public.

It wasn’t like she was going to be sucking Cullen’s face in public anyway. It was very rare that they did more than touch in public in the first place. If they did, they tended (mostly) to keep it brief.

Before they stepped out the open front doors of the manor into the bright light of day, Cullen leaned over to ask, “What was that about a Crow in Markham? Was Rhiryd talking about an Antivan Crow?”

Nodding, Meryell replied, “Right. Neither of us were on that job but it's just one of those stories that gets passed around the company because it's so ridiculous. Some of us got hired to protect this noble who was worried about assassins coming after him just over a year and a half back...well, two and a half now. They'd already tried twice and he and his wife managed to escape from both attempts without a scratch. Our lot fended off another and killed them to a man then the noble decides he's going to get out of fucking Markham.”

“Is this where the Crow comes in?”

“By accident,” she answered with a grin. “They were loading up the luggage and one abruptly tumbles off the top of the carriage and there's this  _ shriek _ . After all of the lot loading it confirmed it hadn't been them - which were all servants and  _ male _ while the scream had sounded  _ female _ \- they all apparently turned to look at the trunk.”

As the stone of the open courtyard of the manor clicked under her boot heels and she blinked in the sunlight, Meryell finished, “They drew swords, popped the lock, and kicked it open. And inside was this dazed little human boy with obvious Crow marked leathers, an already poisoned dagger, and a scrap of paper that had the name of the noble’s  _ wife _ .”

Cullen barked a brief laugh at that then peered around the courtyard as they stopped before the door. She watched him as he drew up to his full height, shoulders straight and steady, already settling back into  _ Commander _ instead of  _ Cullen _ . Still, he smiled and there was a twinkle in his eye as he asked, “Let me guess, the whole thing turned into a scandal.”

Laughing, she nodded.

“Turned out that his wife - his  _ new _ wife - had a penchant for cozying up to a rich man, poisoning him, and then disappearing with as much of his fortune as she could carry before anyone could think wiser. Her previous husband apparently survived the poison. Ended up with a lame arm from it that couldn't be fixed but he still had enough money to send people out to find her. When he did, he hired a group of Crows to kill her.”

He pursed his lips and murmured, “So the boy was a last ditch effort.”

Nodding, Meryell said, “He was just a trainee, a rookie taken out with the group for experience. When he learned the rest were dead, he took the paper from what of their things the rest had left behind and decided that he had to finish the job.”

“As a trainee?”

“Crow training is harsh,” she explained with a shrug. “And they beat obedience to their organization into the ones they train. He'd been an orphan on the streets before they picked him up and fed him, gave him shelter and then asked him to kill for them. So he was just doing what he thought he needed to do to keep that.”

Cullen stopped then and frowned down at her. “You're talking like you've talked to him.”

Stiffening, Meryell tried to smile but it felt brittle

Smiling, she nodded. “I have.”

“The company recruited him?”

“Boy should've never been a blade anyway,” Meryell grumbled. “He's got a soft heart and that life would've probably killed him before he was full grown. We let Bort just be a child instead of a killer, let  _ him  _ decide what he wanted to be.”

“Bort?” repeated Cullen, his eyebrows rising high. “Your stablehand?”

Meryell just grinned, saying, “He's a marvel with a horse. And saves baby birds that have fallen from nests, raises then in his pockets. There's not a bone that  _ wants _ to be violent in his body.”

“But he knows how.”

“Every company whelp knows  _ how _ to kill,” she replied darkly. “We don't leave our own defenseless. We just teach ‘em that it's last resort. They aren't even allowed to start going into the field until eight and ten.”

Cullen frowned at that, his brow pulling low, and he turned towards her. She knew that worrying look too - he’d caught at something in what she'd said.

His voice was pitched low as he said, “But you joined immediately? At fifteen?”

_ Shit. _

She'd never told him.

Meryell had mentioned that she'd killed people before. They both had blood on their hands and she sure as shit wasn't going to let him wallow in that if she could help it. She just hadn't told him how  _ early _ her first kill had been. Even if it had been an accident.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and shrugged as she said lightly, “Special case with me. They still kept me out of a lot of shit but I wasn't a trainee. Not like our whelps.” Then Meryell opened her eyes and looked up at him, seeing the curiosity and concern in his eyes.

“I already had a kill under my belt at four and ten,” she breathed. Cullen inhaled sharply at the admission then his fingers were on her jaw, the leather scratching her skin slightly as he lightly brushed across it. She flinched, just a little, before adding, “It was an accident. During a theft.”

“I…”

“Lovebirds!” hissed Sera abruptly as she blew past them with a pack on either shoulder and her bow slung across them. “Josiekins looks like she's about to set ya both on fire and call it a day. Get to doing shit!”

Meryell flinched at the reminder and Cullen snarled a curse under his breath before letting his hand fall away. It went to his sword, gripping the hilt tightly, and she could see it tremble. That reminded her sharply that today meant yet another dose of diluted lyrium for him.

He then sighed, lifting his other hand to press at the bridge of his nose, before asking, “You'll tell me when you get back? Everything?” She could see his jaw was tight, tensed and heavy, and his gaze was fierce as he looked down at her.

It made her feel rather like shit that this had come up  _ right now _ . She'd really prefer to have it out here and now if he wanted to but...priorities and acting decent and all that shite.

So instead Meryell straightened up, met his eyes, and assured, “The moment I'm back in Skyhold.” Then she paused and said softly, “I wasn't trying to hide it. I just...I don't like remembering that day.”

His gaze softened at that and Cullen nodded before saying gently, “I'm not...Maker, I'm not  _ angry _ , love. I just...I'd rather you share these things. Isn't that what people are supposed to do in a relationship?”

“Never did like following the same fucking path as everyone else but, yeah, I agree with that one.” She started to reach out towards him but stopped herself, instead forcing a smile and planting her hands on her hips. “Never did say I was good at this, either.”

“Neither am I but that's the point of figuring out how this goes together.”

Meryell just smiled at that. “We're a fucking mess, you know that right?”

“I wouldn't have you any other way,” Cullen replied with a smile. He then nodded his head before saying, “I'll see you in a month or so?”

“Hopefully less,” she answered brightly. “Maybe we'll get lucky and word of the arrangement has already been passed on. I've got all the luck I need now, after all.”

He chuckled and nodded. “I'll pray that it is so.” Then his shoulders heaved as he took a deep breath before murmuring, “I should go find Gil.”

Nodding, Meryell said, “ _ Ar lath ‘ma, vhen’an. _ ” They couldn't speak their feelings in the open in Common while in Orlais but they sure as shit could in Elven. Gaspard certainly didn't know it and she'd never met another city elf who knew more than the handful of words they normally used. Half-Dalish like her were few and far between amongst the city folk.

They were safe with Elven.

“ _ Ar lath ‘ma _ ,” Cullen answered with a smile. Then he nodded his head respectfully, as the Inquisitor’s Commander should in any public venue, before he turned and left. She watched him go for a long moment, eyes flicking over his tall form before she turned away.

There was work to be done.

Sighing, Meryell turned away and walked towards where she had already seen Cassandra standing next to a cluster of saddled horses and Inquisition soldiery. Due to the nature of where they were going, it had been decided that she needed more than the men they already had in the Plains and her team. As one of the few full squads that had accompanied them, Sergeant Olyver and his Corporals Edine and Dairin along with everyone under the Sergeant’s command had been assigned to accompany them. Arnald had then tacked on Folke, Dragos, and Rebecca with the stern comment that he wasn't letting her walk into that shithole those two royal idiots had turned the countryside of Orlais into without Fangs at her back. That and if she had a problem with it, he had no problem pulling rank on her since in Fang matters he outranked her still.

Josephine had looked  _ appalled  _ at him - a former minor noble - calling the Empress and the Duke  _ idiots _ . The  _ el’u’verelan  _ had merely blinked at him before seeming to shrug his phrasing aside to comment that he was probably right. Cullen, of course, agreed with almost anything that gave her more people at her back. She'd had a laugh about the whole thing and hadn't argued.

Anything that gave her her father at her side was fine by her. And she wanted to see Corporal Edine, Rebecca, and Cassandra fighting together. They were going to  _ terrify _ everyone in the Exalted Plains into submission. She'd put money on it if she could.

“How's prep, Cass?” she asked as she got closer to the warrior. “We almost ready to get the fuck out of Orlais?”

The Seeker turned to look at her before replying, “We are close to prepared, though I believe Solas wished to speak to you before we left.” Then she smirked and asked, “You  _ are _ aware that the Exalted Plains are still in Orlais?”

“Far, far away from this lot of stuck up arse nuts, though,” Meryell replied with a grin as she jerked a thumb over her shoulder, “so I'm counting it as  _ out _ .”

Cassandra snorted at that, shaking her head, before saying, “If that's how you wish to view it, Meryell, I will not argue with you.”

“Good,” she said with a grin. Then Meryell sighed before grumbling, “I guess I'll go have a chat with Chuckles and see what the fuck he wants.”

“I was under the impression you and he were not so much at odds anymore?”

“We’re not. That's just me cursing for the sake of cursing.”

The older woman let out a quiet laugh at that, saying, “Sometimes I forget that you don't always mean the words when you say them. You always sound as though you do.”

“Not sure how you manage to forget that,” Meryell commented as she turned to look for Solas. She caught sight of the bald elf across the courtyard speaking with Cullen and frowned. What was he doing over there?

As she watched, her lover turned and pointed towards her, saying something to the other elf. Solas nodded at him then began moving towards her, bare feet ghosting across the cobblestones. She moved away from Cassandra to meet him halfway across the courtyard, where they could speak with at least some level of privacy.

“ _ Da’len _ ,” he greeted with a vague nod of his head.

“ _ Hahren _ ,” she replied with a smirk. “Cass said you were looking for me?”

“Yes,” he replied then went silent. Meryell frowned at him as he stood there, obviously gathering his thoughts or some other such shit. Then she noticed something about him that made her breath catch.

It was subtle, barely noticeable but the tips of his ears were  _ twitching _ . The only reason she even noticed it was because she  _ always _ noticed when another elf’s ears twitched. Mostly because there were so few that shared the ability with her over the years.

“Chuckles,” she intoned softly, not even bothering to hide the concern in her voice. He was so rarely ever bothered by something and she knew from her own motions that that slight flicking was  _ worry _ . “What’s wrong?”

He looked up at her at that, gaze curious and said, “You actually sound concerned,  _ da’len. _ ”

“I may not  _ like _ you, Chuckles,” Meryell pointed out with narrowed eyes, “but I respect you decently enough. For Skyhold, for letting me hide on your couch, for offering to help Cullen...shit, I’ll even throw in being a snarky shit back at me  _ and  _ the Iron Lady. Not to mention you’re a member of the Inquisition and I'm Inquisitor and I take responsibility fucking serious.” She then crossed her arms, frowning at him, and asked, “Now what's wrong?”

For a moment he just looked at her and she was about to get to the point of demanding what was wrong again when he finally said, “I find that I need a favor.”

“You? A favor?” she exclaimed. “You...you never ask for  _ anything _ , Chuckles. Not even when I offered to pay you back for helping me avoid shit.”

“Hmm, yes. I usually find need for little yet this…” Solas trailed off, looking away from her for a moment, then his gaze drifted back. “I would ask that you reconsider the party you are taking to the Exalted Plains.”

Meryell arched an eyebrow. “To include you?”

He tilted his head slightly into just enough of a nod for it to count. “Yes,  _ da’len _ . I...as I slept last night I heard a cry for help. One of my oldest friends has been captured, forced into slavery by mages.”

She knew enough about Chuckles to know that when he said  _ friends _ he meant spirit. They did, on occasion, actually have a conversation or two when she felt she had the patience for him. Since they’d agreed to keep away from talking about the Dalish since he disdained them and she thought him a twat for it, they’d actually discovered they could have a semi-civil magical discussion. She knew plenty from overhearing conversations amongst the company mages, enough to at least keep up a little bit and not be declared a total novice in the subject.

“Your friend,” she began slowly, “a spirit?”

“You guess well,  _ da’len. _ ” He gave a vaguely approving nod, which she immediately sneered at, before going on, “My friend is a spirit of wisdom. It was content, quite happily remaining within the Fade unlike the spirits we have faced at the rifts. These mages used a summoning circle to draw it through, pulling it against its will, and it wants my help returning to the Fade.”

“ _ Shit _ ,” cursed Meryell, her eyes widening a little. Summoning spirits through into the world  _ rarely _ turned out well. Then she scowled and said, “Fucking shit timing that this didn’t happen while we were back at Skyhold, Chuckles. Our Mort is an expert on runes and summoning circles. Even if we sent a raven back now, he probably wouldn’t make it to us in time.”

Solas nodded before saying, “I know enough of them. Your father…”

Shaking her head, she quickly interrupted him, “Summoning circles aren’t his thing. Mostly because he can’t draw a circle worth a damn. That and he doesn’t even have enough magic to break one, so he doesn’t screw with them.” Shrugging, she tacked on, “Too dangerous for even his wild blood, he says.”

That made the elf’s shoulders slump just slightly - just  _ enough _ \- then he nodded. “We will work with what we can then.” Then he glanced up at her, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other, before saying, “Assuming that I am indeed accompanying you.”

“Of course you’re bloody accompanying me, Chuckles,” Meryell snapped. “Dorian’ll be relieved to go back to Skyhold anyway and get a break.” She then frowned, staring at him hard, before asking, “You seriously thought I’d say  _ no _ ?”

“I do not deign to think of which way you will drift,  _ da’len _ .” Solas smiled thinly at her. “You have already surprised me with your actions since the Breach began and I would not wish to think I knew what path you were going to take next. It would ruin the surprise were I to guess.”

She blinked at him for a moment, having not realized that he thought  _ that _ about her.

“Well...good to know, I guess.”

He chuckled at that and said a simple, “Yes.”

Meryell pursed her lips then snapped her fingers, asking, “You know where your friend is at in the Plains?”

“I do. I managed to get a sense of the general area it was in before I awoke.”

“Sergeant Olyver and his company are coming with us and one of the scouts assigned with them has a copy of the map our scouts already in the Plains have put together,” she said quickly. “Go find him and figure out where this location is at. Depending on where it is, we’ll head that way as soon as we can.”

For a moment Solas’ stern expression that he normally wore disappeared and she saw honest to the fucking Maker  _ gratitude _ and  _ relief _ wash across his features. “Thank you,  _ da’len _ ,” he said in a low voice and, for a brief instant, she could hear the relief there too.

Spurred on by the fact that for once he was actually showing some sort of emotion beyond the slightly anger, cool disdain, or sharp biting tongue that he usually displayed, Meryell reached out with her Marked hand to grip his shoulder firmly. He jumped as she firmly intoned, “Like I said, you’re Inquisition, Chuckles. And I protect what’s mine.”

As she released him, Solas quietly said, “As I said, you continue to surprise me.”

“Good, means I’m keeping  _ someone  _ on their toes at least.” Nodding to him, Meryell said, “I’ll see you and your hart on the road,  _ hahren _ ,” before she turned and strode back towards Cassandra, who had been joined by Dorian.

“Hey, Dorian!” she called out as she got close. “Guess fucking what?”

The mage turned towards her as she heard a hiss from  _ somewhere _ that had to be Josephine lamenting the fact that she was shouting curses in the open air. He blinked before calling back, “Do you have something  _ exciting _ to tell me, darling? Is it that I get to set fools on fire? Oh, do tell me it is.”

“Better!” chirped Meryell as she reached him, looping her arm around his waist.

He slung his arm over her shoulder in return and leaned in, purring, “What is  _ better _ than fools on fire?”

Turning to grin up at him, she replied, “Getting to go back to Skyhold instead of following me into the fucking wilderness.”

Dorian blinked and straightened up in surprise, staying like that for a moment before he laughed and kissed her on the cheek. As Cassandra sighed at them and members of Sergeant Olyver’s company looked them like they were  _ insane _ , the mage lifted her up and spun her around in circles while declaring that she was  _ clearly _ his best friend since she had given him such a delightful present.

Meryell just laughed through the whole of it, clinging to his shoulders, and enjoyed the ridiculousness of it.

She  _ had _ to because she had the distinct feeling that whatever they found in the Plains was going to about as pleasant as the Maker’s rotting balls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven/Elvhen Translations**
> 
> Ena arla eth - come home safe


	54. “To a templar in withdrawals, regular lyrium sings.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen learns something about his recovery as well as something frankly terrifying about lyrium and its effect on the body. After returning to Skyhold, he learns that the Storm Coast camps have been sending in reports about quakes since they left for Orlais and then has a rather frighteningly open conversation with the Hawkes and Varric.

It mocked him.

Taunting him, teasing him with the prospect of freedom before it dragged him back down underneath it's waves. He fought, flailing and reaching for a hold to pull himself out,  _ to escape _ . Yet there were no handholds to grasp and the cool blue swallowed him.

“Cullen.”

How did it still have such a hold on him when it was so weak? Why did it still gleam as if at full strength, merely a reminder of what he had been and had fought  _ so hard _ to escape? It was a reminder of failure.  _ His _ failure.

He hadn't been strong enough.

“ _ Cullen _ .”

Cullen jerked, pulled abruptly out of his thoughts by that sharp retort of Gil’s voice, and finally tore his gaze away from the glittering phial. He blinked at her several times before he managed a weak, “Enchanter.”

She grimaced, teeth bared and throat tight, then demanded, “ _ Date _ .”

He started to open his mouth and  _ reality _ came crashing back like a hard blow from Cassandra’s shield, stealing his breath and rattling him to the core. When he recovered, he managed to reply, “9:42 Dragon. 9th day of Firstfall.”

Then his eyes fell back onto the phial she'd prepared lyrium in, an ache coiling low in his belly as his nostrils flared. Cullen quickly pushed himself away from the table and stood, running both hands through his hair and mussing it horribly. He wanted it,  _ wanted _ with a desire that was almost as blinding as his for Meryell. That want, however, was false and he knew it. It was the lyrium still in his system wanting, the addictive properties of it that lingered making him  _ crave _ .

“Maker’s breath,” he murmured, terrified at that ever so brief lapse. Was he getting worse despite actually starting to feel  _ better _ on most days? He then turned, looking worriedly at Gil, but she was actually  _ smiling  _ at him. “Gil?”

“Do you know what you did?” she asked, her voice a whisper. When he just blankly shook his head, she laughed and gave her own a shake. “Andraste’s  _ blood _ , Cullen, you got caught up in the song, lost time,  _ recovered _ time, and then pulled away. Without hesitation. Without almost a breath between any of them!”

He frowned at her, not following where she was going at all, and she laughed.

“Look,” Gil said, moving over to pick up the patched and haphazardly sewn together notes that she had. He'd learned on the first day they sat down together - while he was still in a pallet on his tower floor and her perched primly in his desk chair - that everything in the odd looking collection was a note on lyrium or a templar. Eight years of discovering what lyrium did to a body and every discovery after of how to help in recovery from it. She sat it down on the edge of the table the phial was on and flipped through, passing crabbed notes that he couldn't read at a glance and several sketches of body parts or what he assumed were organs. When she finally stopped, Gil planted a finger on a specific spot and declared, “There! My note from my fourth year in the company. We ended up with three templars around the same time that fall season and I helped them through withdrawals into the next summer. But, here, look at my note at the beginning of spring for two of them.”

Still frowning, Cullen kept his gaze away from the phial, studiously ignoring the liquid within. He could still  _ smell it _ as he got closer, his nostrils flaring again, but it wasn't as bothersome. At that distance it smelled more like the mage’s tower at Skyhold did.

It helped a lot that the lyrium Gil put together didn't smell like his philter had or the lingering ozone scent he always caught around his templars and their barracks. That made it far less familiar when he took the draughts she made.

Resting one hand on the table at the edge of the notes, he leaned in to read the words underneath her fingertip.

_ 14 Drakonis, 9:36 _

_ Cavan and Jennis are actually turning a corner, I believe! Cavan, as the older and longer serving of the pair of them, is having some clear issues with his memory but that is almost expected of a templar of his years. I am honestly astounded he retains as much as he has. _

_ That is, of course, not what has signified their turn. It is more an observation I have made before but it has been a year since we last had a templar come into the company and that was when I first realized that there was something of a recovery pattern. _

_ I had just given the two of them their dose that morning and then went to help Dorwell take his. I am sad to comment that his outlook is not as positive as that of his sword brothers and I've already asked our other templars to be ready. Cavan and Jennis will need them if their recovery continues on a good pattern. _

_ After I helped Dorwell, I turned back to the other two. They were both still sitting there, phials in their hands and that glazed distant look on their eyes that I've learned means they are “listening” to the lyrium. _

Jerking his head around to her, Cullen asked, “You  _ know _ about the singing?”

“You think it doesn't sing to us mages?” she asked with a soft smile. Then she nodded towards the phial on the table but he didn't follow her gaze to it. Didn't need to, his body knew  _ exactly _ where it was. “The stuff the Chantry puts out has something laced into it that makes the pull of the song just that little bit harder. I've tried to figure it out but I can't get anyone to talk to me about it. And by the time it's diluted and shipped out to the Circles, whatever it is just blends into the lyrium and there’s no separating what it is.”

He wanted to be  _ furious _ at that knowledge but he'd honestly suspected it already. Frowning, he inquired, “Where does the company get its lyrium then, if not the Chantry?”

Gil shrugged before replying, “We have several channels. Two sources in Orzammar, one in the Chantry storehouse, and there's a few smugglers and bandits and pirates who we pay good money to for pure lyrium. The Chantry stuff affects all of us mages as well, though less than any templar that's been on it of course, so we tend to avoid it unless in a pinch. Even then, when we do have some it's mostly sorted around until it goes to a non-Circle raised mage so the effect on the rest of us isn't exacerbated.”

Cullen blinked at her for a moment then asked, “Did you…”

“We shared one of our Orzammar contacts with the Ambassador. Didn't think she'd be pleased about the others so we've kept them to ourselves. No doubt the Nightingale knows though.”

“No doubt,” he agreed before turning his eyes back to the paper.

_ I did as I usually do and moved quietly between their beds, calling their names as firmly as I could. Jennis was the first to react, startling at me before he said my name. He easily confirmed the date when I asked for it which is very good. The last time he was lost in the song, he came back thinking he was still in Ansburg on watch for a moment. _

_ Cavan called me “Enchanter” when he finally alerted a few moments after Jennis (I excuse his taking longer due to his age) and gave me the wrong date first. It did not take long for him to direct correct himself, however. _

_ This does not confirm my observation that a templar pulling themselves away from the song of the lyrium is truly recovering but it is a good sign. I will continue to look for this moment with others and take note of when it happens and if this changes after. _

That was the end of the main section of the notes but there as a small addition crammed into a corner of the page before sprawling across the bottom in the space below the entry. He had to turn his head to read it all but the lettering was clear.

_ Dorwell died choking on his own blood two nights after this despite the efforts of myself, Folke, and Swift. I had our surgeon, Croaker, open up his body after we'd removed it from the room and had Valee and Bastian calming Cavan and Jennis. This may set their recovery back, losing their sword brother so suddenly, but we'll help them as we can to see they aren't alone. _

_ Croaker and I determined after looking at Dorwell that there was no way he could have survived. I surmised that at some point he had been sickly, likely with a coughing sickness in winter. There were crystalline growths in both of his lungs, a thing I haven't seen in any templar we've put on Croaker’s table. He said it would look just like lungrot from the worst tobacco user if it weren't for the fact that it was obviously a crystal. His brain also showed the heaviest signs of onset of the crystallization that I've ever seen. There was one quadrant that was entirely crystallized with a hole in the middle of it. Croaker kept it for preservation here in the keep, for study and a reminder of what we are trying to fight. _

_ I will ask Cavan and Jennis if Dorwell was a heavy user in a few days. Much as I may need to know for the future, I will not compromise their own recovery to further my research. Perhaps they will have answers to this when I dare ask. _

His hands were shaking visibly and refusing to stop despite his clenching them tight against the table when he was done reading.

Could he...could he end up like that? Consumed by the slow growth of the lyrium left in his system? If so…

Maker, if so, then normal lyrium was truly no better than the red. Slower. It was only  _ slower _ but leading inevitably to the same fate.

Dying early before it took the body or dying of madness as it grew inside.

“Is there really a way out of this, Gil?” he asked. Cullen could hear his teeth chattering, snapping together as he spoke, and realized that it wasn't just his hands shaking.

_ He _ was shaking.

“ _ Can _ I live?” he breathed, voice dropped to a whisper that still seemed loud to his ears. “I just want to live. To grow old with Meryell at my side. Is that...is that too much to hope for?”

Gil’s hands folded over his and squeezed with more strength than he'd expected out of her. “Look at me, Cullen “ she said sternly, her voice ringing with the command of a woman who expected to be obeyed. He obeyed, was unable to do anything else, and met her pale brown eyes. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now...yes, you also have those growths inside of you. Every templar who's  _ ever _ taken lyrium, even once, does. Those are what gave you your attack, which was a strike back against not only them starving but your system attempting to remove them. But  _ you _ , Cullen Rutherford, are not Dorwell Orrin. You are sound of mind, of body, and you have told the song where it could go stuff it's fucking addictive self  _ twice _ . And I've learned well over the years that that's proof that it  _ can _ be fought off.”

Her voice was  _ fierce _ and  _ furious _ as Gil went on, “You are of the few I've met who has fought and  _ beaten _ the addiction for over a year on their own.  _ A year, Cullen _ . Were it not for Haven and the stress that caused along with the reorganization in Skyhold, I have no doubt that you could have done it without what we're going through now.”

Then her expression softened as she paused before saying, “You have an inner strength and a will to live that I have seen in very few. If you need no more proof of that, look to Kinloch.”

Cullen whipped his head back, staring at her in horror at the suggestion. “I didn't  _ survive _ the Tower,” he hissed. “Another man walked out of that horror and it wasn't  _ me _ .”

“Not the you of now, no, but it  _ was _ you,” she pressed. “I was  _ there _ , remember? I knew the templars that fell the same as you did. And  _ you _ at nineteen were stronger than some who were twenty years your senior.”

He wanted to scream that it hadn't been him at all, that the only thing that had kept him furiously clinging to the proverbial ledge was that they teased him with Kath’s form and he hadn't let go of the image of her body. When they had painted her alive and full of sensuality that she'd never shown in life beyond an occasional daring touch and a secret smile, he had remembered her glassy eyed and still with her limbs stiff to the touch with rigor.

Instead he just huffed out a breath and murmured, “You have far more faith in me than you should, Gil.” He wasn't going to share  _ how _ he survived, not with her. Kath had been one of Gil’s students. If she hadn't seen her body back then, he wasn't going to hurt her with details now.

“I will be the judge of  _ that _ ,” Gil snapped in reply. She then softened her tone as she said, “No matter how much lyrium you've consumed in your years - and, yes, I do recall that you told us that Commander of yours in Kirkwall increased your dose at the start of your tenure there - you are still far and away from what Dorwell took. Cavan and Jennis admitted to me freely when I asked that Dorwell was an addict, a  _ true _ addict, and would do anything to get his fix. The three of them served together at Ansburg, had been sword brothers and shield mates since Cavan had taken the other two under his wing when they were assigned there.” Gil paused to frown before she went on, “It was his addiction that made them leave the Order.”

He blinked. “They left?”

“Dorwell was caught filching from the lyrium stores and kicked out. Cavan and Jennis both knew that he wouldn't be able to survive on his own, so they resigned themselves from the Order. They refused to let their brother suffer alone.”

Cullen’s throat was suddenly tight at the idea of having had someone like that. No one in Kinloch had seemingly cared (other than Gil, who hadn’t been allowed to help him). He'd had no one in Greenfell except clinical Sisters and broken fellows. Samson had covered for him and ribbed him on occasion, sometimes even dragged him out of a nightmare, but it had felt less brotherly and more like he was an annoyance to the older man. Then he’d lost that fragile handhold and had persisted on his own, clinging to the Order and (bemusedly) the mostly pleasant conversations he had with Hawke. After that - after Anders and the explosion and hours of breathing in smoke - he'd had Rylen and Carver during the recovery and that was  _ closer _ . Cassandra was one more foot on the path and then... _ Meryell. _

Meryell and Gil and Folke. Arnald and every random member of the company. Cassandra. Blackwall. Dorian. Cole. Even  _ Sera _ .

He let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding and smiled. Maybe he hadn't had someone when he'd  _ first _ needed them but he had them  _ now _ . And wasn't the now what mattered most?

Calm settled over Cullen at that thought, driving away the panic and soothing most of the rattled edges of his thoughts. He then felt Gil pat his hand warmly and looked down at her as she smiled up at him.

“That's better,” she said kindly. She then shook her head before adding, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let you read that part. It's not...it's never a pleasant realization to come to and you're not the first to panic about it. Normally I try to explain it more kindly than  _ growths _ .”

“The lingering lyrium,” he said. “That's what you said when we began talking about the attack. That the lingering lyrium in my body was to blame.I think I liked that explanation far better.”

“It is  _ easier _ to accept over your body and mind possibly being infected by patches of lyrium crystals.”

Cullen frowned at that and moved his hands from underneath hers. He then leaned over and picked up the phial, his left hand shaking only a little now from normal withdrawal as he lifted it. For a long moment he regarded the glimmering liquid inside - a trap hidden beneath an illusion of power, a temporary advantage not worth the risk - before asking, “If they both cause crystals to eventually grow inside of us...then what is the difference between normal lyrium and the red?”

There was a long silence from Gil before she softly replied, “I don't know, Cullen.” Then in a tone like steel that rang of  _ truth _ , she added, “Find me the red and convince your advisors and our Meryell to give me reign to study it. I'll find an answer.”

He shuddered at the idea of the red lyrium being in Skyhold - he could still taste its sickliness on the back of his tongue on the occasion that he dreamt of Haven’s fall or, worse, the rarest nightmare of it being  _ in him _ when all that surrounded him was the stench of blood and heat with an all-consuming rage vibrating in his crystallized chest.

Yet…they needed to know.

“I'll bring it up with Leliana and Josephine on the ride back to Skyhold,” he said after a moment. Then he frowned and added, “Varric, Hawke, and Carver as well once we get back so I can talk to them at once. They were at the Gallows to see what it did and I know they had at least one other encounter. Maybe they'll have some thoughts.”

Gil nodded then flipped her notes back shut, picking them carefully up. “I will be riding with the Captain if you need me,” she said as she rubbed her fingers across the surface of the hardened leather that enclosed either side of her notes. Then she laughed, almost giddily, and mused aloud, “Who knew that a decade after that shit in Kinloch that we'd be here?”

Cullen just chuckled at that and replied, “I can only thank the Maker that he allowed such a coincidence. I'd probably be dead without you, Gil. So might Meryell.”

Her cheeks pinked at his words and she smiled, like an indulgent mother, saying, “Take your dose and get your ass out of my workspace so I can actually finish packing. The Captain’ll take the shit out of my hide if I'm late stowing my gear.”

Laughing, he saluted her briefly with the phial before he stared hard at it with one thought solidifying in his mind.

_ You won't be the thing that kills me _ .

Then he downed the lyrium and gripped the edge of the table as an echo of what he'd felt while taking lyrium before he'd left the Order rocked through him. Cullen gritted his teeth through it and mentally recited one of the verses that had kept him sane since Kinloch.

_ Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. _

_ I shall weather the storm. _

_ I shall endure. _

_ What you have created, no one can tear asunder. _

* * *

“Report,” snapped Cullen as he strode into his office. Rylen had already gathered his other two captains and the lieutenants who were in Skyhold into the room, doing precisely as he'd asked when they met in Skyhold’s lower yard upon his return a few hours before. As he settled behind his desk and sat, he fixed the Starkhavener with a look. “Let's begin, Captain Rylen.”

“Aye, ser,” replied the man smartly, no joking or playful ribbing about him now. That was one of those things that Cullen appreciated about the man. He could be the most easy-going fellow you ever met and skirt rules left and right if he saw reason but once things were serious he fell into line.

They went through the general reports quickly, every captain and lieutenants verbally summarizing what he'd missed while in Orlais. Then Rylen turned to one of his secondary captains and said, “Captain Morwen, that report from your sergeant in the Storm Coast…”

“Treno?” replied the woman and Cullen frowned. He knew that name... _ oh _ . The soldier who Meryell had approved of, the one who he'd spoken to himself when he'd come back to Haven at the end of his turn in the Hinterlands. Treno had proven worthy of the attention that comment had brought him and he'd consulted with Morwen and her lieutenant Connall, who were the man’s direct superiors, before he elevated him to sergeant and gave him Storm’s Solitude. “Yes, Commander. There's something worrying going on out in the Storm Coast. Sergeant Treno sent in a raven not long after you left for Orlais saying that there had been something of a quake there.”

Frowning, Cullen pointed out, “Quakes aren't uncommon in that part of Ferelden. It has something to do with the sea cliffs. Highever in particular has always had issues with them but they've never been anything to worry about.”

Morwen pressed her lips together tightly, causing them to go white with blood loss, before saying grimly, “That was just the  _ first  _ report, Commander. Another came in three days later, reporting another quake. Five days after that, there was an even more dramatic one that a scout witnessed pitch a giant from its feet.”

He stared at her for a moment then turned to frown at Rylen, asking, “And why didn't this report get sent to us?”

“I didn't send the report forward because I felt I didn't need to,” replied Rylen and Cullen narrowed his eyes at the man. He would have to have a talk with him about that after the meeting.

Instead of focusing in his second in command, Cullen turned his attention back to Morwen. “And since the report about the giant?”

She straightened up before answering, “Regular reports after that, Commander. Every three or four days, reporting small tremors and the like.”

Nodding, he leaned back to dig into the drawers of his desk where he kept his own personal copies of all of the regional maps. Finding the one marked on the edge as the Storm Coast, he stood and laid it out on the desk, flattening its edges with stones he kept for just that purpose. He tapped a finger on the marker for Storm’s Solitude before he began, “Your Sergeant Treno commands from here and his forces are spread out across two other camps he's established in the region: Small Grove and Driftwood Margin. Do we have any other forces in the area?”

“The Blades of Hessarian, ser,” replied Morwen. “They're some sort of cult who the Sergeant's men were having issue with but the Inquisitor won their allegiance. Part of them have been aiding in restoring the port the Inquisitor took from the Red Templars and the rest are helping the Sergeant.”

Frowning, Cullen reached for the quill and ink pot on his desk to make a new notation on the map, asking, “And do we know their numbers?”

There was a pause before the reply of, “According to the Sergeant, they're half a size bigger or more than the men assigned to him. Which makes them one hundred strong at the least, not counting a few he notes aren't fighters.”

Maker, he loved that woman. Instead of fifty, she'd given him a force of  _ one hundred fifty  _ in the Storm Coast.

Smiling, Cullen made the notation about the size of the Blades of Hessarian along the edge of the map in the sea. As he tapped the ink off of his quill, putting it away again, he said, “We need to look into these quakes. I know enough about them that they occur but also enough to know they aren't supposed to be happening that frequently.”

What did he need?

More men in the Coast, for starters. Scouts to find the origin of the quakes, soldiers to guard it, experts to look at the cause. If possible, soldiers to begin investigating said cause.

Looking at Morwen, he said, “Captain, since it's your sergeant in the Coast, I'm making this your operation. Any scouts assigned to you that are free need to be rotated into the region so they can find the source of these quakes. We'll also likely need more of your men in the region.”

She nodded smartly and saluted, gauntleted fist clanging against her breastplate. “Yes, Commander. I'll send Connall there as well as his other sergeants, Kavyn and Hildur. They're not long back from being assigned to break the new camps in Western Approach and Emprise du Lion. Storm Coast will be a nice vacation from both of those.”

“Aye, ser,” came a murmur from amongst the lieutenants. “We can muster with the dawn and be on our way long before breakfast bell, Commander, Captain.”

“See it done, Lieutenant,” Cullen commanded with a nod. He then tapped his fingers against his desk before saying, “There's a few of the dwarven stonemasons who helped us restore the keep and its outer walls still under Inquisition service. I'll make inquiries and see if one can accompany you. Their knowledge of stone might be useful.”

Morwen nodded and he could see a dark head amongst the lieutenants doing the same. He then frowned and asked, “Anything else that needs to be gone over?”

When there was no immediate reply, Cullen nodded sharply. “If your sergeants or corporals are coming back in off a post for a rest, you're clear. If they're prepping to head back out and you don't already know where they've been posted, see Rylen tonight in barracks or tomorrow morning at the lower training field. Dismissed.”

Nods and murmurs of his title followed that and one-by-one the men and women filed out of the office onto the cold. Rylen lingered, unmoving, hands folded behind his back, until the door shut behind them. Then he asked, “Do I need to be prepared for a dressing down, Commander?”

Snorting, Cullen shifted the stones off of the map after checking that the ink was dry and rolled it back up. As he bent to place it back in the drawer it came from, he glanced up and asked, “No. Should I though, old man?”

“You're pissed about the report.”

“ _ Quakes _ in the Storm Coast, Rylen! Quakes far beyond the pale of what they usually are. You're damned right I would have liked to know that before I rode back.”

“And what would that have accomplished, ser?” replied the man in a tone that  _ sounded _ respectful but he could hear Rylen’s normal prodding underneath. “Other than worrying the Inquisitor, yourself, and the other advisors when you had bigger worries to deal with? You couldn't exactly drop everything about saving the Empress to run back here and deal with quakes that haven't done more than scare folks.”

Cullen narrowed his eyes at him before growling,  “It would have been nice to at least get an alert that something was amiss, Rylen.” He then took a breath before adding, “I trust you to handle things perfectly well, you wouldn't be my second if I didn't. However, it would have been nice to straightaway inform Meryell that she may have to return to Skyhold immediately after matters are settled in the Exalted Plains. The intent was for her to continue into Emprise du Lion since there are so many issues there with the Red Templar presence only growing.”

There was silence from the man for a long moment then he commented, “Well, at least if she has to, it won't be months before you see her again since Skyhold is on route between here and there.”

Cullen glared at him then grumbled, “Yes, a few hours for which I'll have her to myself, if even  _ that _ . The prospect of having her and then immediately having to let her go again doesn't fill me with joy, old man.”

Rylen smiled at that, a sad little curve of his mouth, and finally relaxed his tense stance.

“At least you have her, Cullen,” he commented. “There's a lot of folks who don't. Or don't know for certain whether they'll keep them.”

For a moment the comment made him  _ burn _ with embarrassment because he knew plenty who'd lost someone then Cullen caught on the second half. He frowned up at his friend and asked, “Am I to assume that vague comment has some hint that you and Folke aren't doing well?”

“You want me to kiss and tell, Commander?” asked Rylen with a wink.

“I  _ don't  _ want to know about Folke’s cock or what it does, thank you.”

That made the other man snort before he said, “It's fine, if you must know. I'm not expecting anything more out of him than what he can give.” Rylen then winked as he added, “I doubt you want me as your father-in-law, anyway.”

“ _ Maker's breath _ ,” moaned Cullen, clasping a hand over his face. “So help me, old man…”

“Just keeping your imagination fresh, ser.”

“Fuck’s sake, get  _ out _ .”

Rylen was chuckling as he left and Cullen watched him go with an exasperated sigh. He briefly dropped his head into his hands and sat like that for a moment before he rose to his feet.

There was still another conversation to have tonight.

* * *

“Curly, are you fucking  _ insane _ ?”

“With you around, sometimes I wonder, Hawke,” Cullen quipped back at the woman. When she kept glaring at him, he sighed and lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “The only reason I'm actually suggesting it is because Gil has been studying lyrium for years. She knows enough about it to be plenty wary of its effects.”

Hawke huffed out a breath then gestured towards Varric where the dwarf sat in his own sized chair (which was unsurprisingly a permanent feature in Hawke’s rooms). “You've done this kind of research,” she intoned harshly. “Talk some sense into him.”

At  _ that _ comment, Cullen turned to frown at the dwarf before saying slowly, “You...you've  _ looked _ into red lyrium? And you've never said anything?”

“A shard or two, nothing more,” replied Varric. “They're what was left of the idol we found.”

Alarm bells went off in Cullen’s head because he knew that the lyrium that had laced Meredith’s sword had come from that idol. He'd gotten that much out of Carver since Hawke had fled the city immediately after the fighting in the Gallows was over, when he'd called off his templars and let her pass.

He flicked his eyes over to Carver, who was lounging on the couch next to his older sister in little but a patched training tunic and trousers. The other man  looked half asleep, his head lolled back on a haphazardly placed pillow, but his blue eyes were sharp and alert despite being half-lidded. Carver gave a vague nod of acknowledgement and Cullen frowned.

Turning his attention back to Varric, he asked, “The shards...your brother kept them?”

The dwarf’s eyes widened then he turned his attention towards Carver, saying, “Really, Junior?”

Carver didn't even move, just turned his half open eyes towards Varric and snorted before he said, “I wasn't going to  _ lie _ to my Knight-Captain, Varric. If you think I wasn't going to share  _ some _ of the shit I heard about or that we went through, you two should've dragged me out of Kirkwall with you.”

“I  _ told you _ he took the Order seriously,” Hawke pointed out with a smug smile. Varric just waved a hand dismissively at her, making her laugh. It was odd how he'd actually missed hearing that laugh over the years.

He'd never once had any feelings towards Hawke (though there had been templars who had) but she'd become a staple of his life in Kirkwall. At one point he had actually looked  _ forward _ to their conversations, just as something beyond the norm since it could never be said that they were friends. And that last year, he had noticed how little she'd laughed.

Varric then turned back towards him and Cullen met the dwarf’s eyes, noting that he looked far more serious than he'd ever seen him. “So how much did he tell you, Curly?” he asked.

Shrugging, he replied, “I asked about where the lyrium came from and he gave me the bare bones of the whole thing. That your brother betrayed you, taking the idol for himself. That later you found him gone mad with strange things happening in his home. All caused by those shards. And that he had sold the bulk of the idol to an unknown buyer, who turned out to be Meredith.”

“Bare bones indeed,” Varric mused, rubbing at his chin. Then he sighed before saying, “I've had people looking onto those shards for  _ years _ , Curly. As many alchemists that I could hire, working in shifts with week long breaks between to keep them from going crazy. I even wrote to every mining caste house in Orzammar and they've never seen or heard of this shit. We haven’t figured out anything about it.”

“He even got a special vault built for it,” Hawke commented. “He was very descriptive about it in the letter he wrote me talking about the plan to get it made.”

“I heard that shit  _ singing _ to me like it did to Bartrand,” Varric commented fiercely. Cullen jerked in surprise at that, unable to hide the reaction, and he saw every single one of them zero in on it. “Curly?”

“You heard it singing?” he asked, a little horrified by the idea. Regular lyrium hadn't sung to him until he'd been off of it for months, with withdrawals already set in hard. Mages like Gil were a part of the Fade as much as lyrium, so it wasn't surprising that some of them could hear it too.

But the fact that the red could just sing to  _ anyone _ ? Including dwarves, who were completely disconnected from the Fade? He hadn’t known that particular part from Carver’s shorthand account of the incident.

By Andraste, if that wasn't terrifying, he didn't know what was.

“Maker’s cock,” swore Hawke suddenly, “Curly, you went white as a sheet. The fuck?”

“Commander?” he then heard Carver say and turned towards the siblings, shaking his head.

“I'm fine,” Cullen insisted, holding a hand out towards them in an attempt to stop them from moving forward from their seats. He noticed immediately that his hand was shaking and clenched it into a fist...but not before Carver noticed.

A strong hand gripped his wrist and he looked at the other man to find him sitting up now, no longer sprawled and lazy appearing. No, Carver was fully invested now and his eyes were narrowed in thought.

“Commander,” he repeated. “Cullen. What's this actually about?”

Cullen just stared at him as he idly registered Hawke and Varric sitting up straighter. Varric was mildly aware of his attempt to quit lyrium and his attack since he was in the inner circle but Hawke and Carver hadn't been included in that meeting. They had kept his condition as close to themselves as possible (the only exception being the Fangs, who all pretty much recognized it on their own through familiarity).

“Junior,” the dwarf began and Cullen sighed before shaking his head at him. As Varric’s voice trailed off, he gently pulled his hand from Carver’s grasp and looked at the Hawke siblings in turn.

Clapping his hands together, he bowed his head and said, “When we joined the Inquisition, I made the decision to quit lyrium.”

He couldn't see their facial expressions with his head down but he  _ could _ see Hawke’s bare feet jerk with surprise and Carver wasn’t  _ quiet _ when he began swearing a blue streak. Then Hawke asked, “Varric, you knew?”

“Got informed when Curly got sick,” Varric replied softly. “The whole inner circle got told that he’d tried quitting and there’d been some sort of complication that laid him up. Didn’t specify what but I know that mage Gil from the Fangs who’s been looking after him is a damned fine healer..”

“Good as Anders?” asked Hawke sounding surprised.

Varric chuckled. “Good as Blondie? No, she’s not quite that. She knows a lot more than just how to magically heal though.”

Carver coughed, interrupting them, then said, “You  _ quit _ ? Just like that?” Cullen glanced up and found the younger Hawke looking at him with a mix of awe and appallment. “I mean, I  _ knew _ you quit the Order but I thought...  _ Fuck _ . This could  _ kill you _ , Commander. Shit, if I’m guessing right, that ‘sickness’ of yours was it very nearly doing just that!”

“You aren’t wrong,” Cullen replied wryly with a dry, humorless chuckle. He then straightened up, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the back of his neck. “I couldn’t continue taking lyrium after we left Kirkwall. It was just one more chain to the Order, one more to the Chantry, and after everything...I was done being controlled.”

He then took a breath and continued, “And that’s not even taking to account the things I’ve learned since meeting Gil.”

“ _ That’s _ what prompted this,” Hawke said. She then frowned and asked, “But, backing up, what was with the weird look when Varric mentioned the singing?”

“To a templar in withdrawals,” replied Cullen in a short, clipped tone, “regular lyrium  _ sings _ .”

There was silence and then Varric muttered a quiet, “ _ Shit. _ ”

Nodding, Cullen then turned to Carver and said, “There are also...disturbing things...that regular lyrium does to a body. Things the Chantry never told us would happen. Maker, I’m not certain we would have believed them if they had told us, it’s almost unbelievable.”

The younger Hawke went stiff at that before he growled, “You’re giving me an awful lot of incentive to officially tender my resignation, Commander. Not that the Order has much of anything left that we know of but those of us that you put under Commander Barris. And Rylen but I’m not certain he’s even still considering himself a templar.” He then paused before asking, “Does  _ he _ know? That you quit?”

“Rylen knows what I’m going through,” noted Cullen softly. “Found out by accident early on and helped me cover a few times since then. He still doses so far as I’m aware but it’s not exactly something we’ve discussed.” Carver had been in the Order long enough to know that there was another sentence silently tacked onto that, that it was something no templar  _ ever _ discussed.

One didn’t question the Knight-Vigilant or the Chantry.

He then ran a hand back through his hair before he said, “I won’t go into details about what regular lyrium can do because Maker knows I’m no expert. If you want to know, I can tell Gil that you’ll be coming to have a talk to her. But…” Cullen paused to take a deep breath then looked at all of them before he went on, “What it is capable of has a frightening connection to what we’ve seen red lyrium do. I know you say you haven’t been able to find anything, Varric, but maybe it just needs the right people looking at it. Not alchemists, but  _ mages _ . And as much as the thought of any shard of red being in Skyhold terrifies me, the need to know those answers supersedes that fear.”

Hawke just blinked at him for a moment before she nodded. “I may not think it’s the greatest idea, Curly, but I agree with you. If there’s a connection, we ought to figure out what’s going on.” Then she smiled and shook her head before saying, “And, Maker’s balls, to hear you actually  _ recommending _ mages. I can’t tell you how how refreshing that it.”

“It’s...it’s taken a lot to get me to see that my views when we first met were more than blind,” Cullen commented mildly. “That they were blatantly wrong. I can’t say that I’ll ever be  _ comfortable _ around magic but…” He gestured helplessly before finishing, “It’s something.”

“It’s something,” she agreed with a smile. She then turned to look at her brother and asked, “Carver?”

He nodded his head before replying, “I agree with you, Treva. Perhaps not the greatest idea but I think we do need to know if they are so strongly connected to each other. And I think I will take you up on that offer to talk to Gil, Commander.” Carver frowned darkly as he paused. “I remember the initial speech from the Gallows healer about long service and lyrium use starting to take away my mind. I’d like to actually be around for a while to keep Mathis in line if he’s half as much of a troublemaker as we were when we were youths.”

“He’s half as much of that  _ now _ at four,” Hawke commented with a snort. She then glanced over at Varric, her eyebrows arched questioningly. Cullen followed her gaze to the dwarf and found him with his arms crossed, the crease between his furrowed eyebrow indicating a deep concentration.

Then the dwarf looked up, locking eyes with him, and said, “I’ll talk to my contacts, Curly. If I can manage it, I might be able to manage transport for those shards I’ve got back in Kirkwall.” He then shrugged as he added, “No use letting someone possibly get infected by the shit to collect some when I’ve already got them.”

Smiling, he nodded and said, “Thank you, Varric. Hawke, Carver...thank you.”

Varric just grimaced and replied, “Thank me when Gil figures out what that stuff is and how we can make sure it goes back into dark where it should have stayed, Curly.”

Cullen glanced at Hawke and Carver, who were both worriedly looking at the dwarf, then nodded as he turned his attention back to Varric.

“I’ll thank you then,” he intoned seriously. He had faith that if anyone could do such a thing, Gil might just be the one to manage it.

It was a comfort to have the support of these three in conjunction with the wary agreement of Josephine and Leliana’s quick agreement (which had quickly revealed she’d been looking for answers about what lyrium could do and how much certain people knew about it since he’d become ill).

Now...now he just had to convince Meryell that it was a good idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally leading into some more stuff involving my own personal headcanon about lyrium! It won't come to full fruition until after the Descent DLC is dealt with but that'll be coming up very soon.
> 
> Also, was anyone besides me unaware of the fact that Carver and Cullen are the same age? Because I was unaware of this.


	55. “Never fear calling me on my shit, Cass. I don't want my friends following me blindly if they think I'm doing something stupid.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell meets the some of the Inquisition members stationed in the Exalted Plains and begins the process of starting to settle things in the region. Leaving the bulk of those who'd came with them at the ramparts after they take it, she and her Inner Circle group of Cassandra, Blackwall, and Solas head on their way to explore while the situation at the ramparts is settled. There they meet the Dalish Clan currently occupying the area and Meryell is assaulted by memories she would really rather have stayed buried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S A BIRD! IT'S A PLANE! NO, IT'S...CHAPTER 55 HERE AT LAST!
> 
> Yeah, SO, hi, guys. It's been, uh, a bit. Suffice to say that I suck and my brain sucks and Overwatch is an addictive sinkhole when there are events on. BUT WHATEVER THE IMPORTANT PART IS WE'RE BACK.

“Alright,” Meryell began as she leaned over the table in what accounted for a command tent in the Path of Flame camp, “you've all been here for months. I've read and gone over your reports with the Nightingale, so I know some serious shit has been going down.”

She looked around at the gathered staff of the camp, all sixteen of them. While the region of the Exalted Plains fell under the current command of Sergeant Beatrix Daye, Path of Flame was headed by an agent of Leliana’s. The man insisted on using only the name Shade and he lived up to it by having truly unassuming features that could blend into any crowd. He wore an amalgamation of worn leather and cloth with most of the pieces in faded grays and brown, all of them looking several years old. The only thing that was new looking was the small silver pin with the Inquisition’s eye he wore on the gray scarf around his neck.

The majority of the occupants of the camp were also a part of Leliana’s side of the Inquisition, who had no official name but Meryell had heard a few people call the spies and agents the Nightingale's Ravens lately. It was not only apt but would also confuse someone into thinking they were talking about the birds.

“But I don't want just _reports_ ,” she went on. “I want to hear what's going on from _you_ with all of the details you can spare.” Grinning at them, she added, “I want all of the things that _couldn't_ go in the reports too. Even the inane shift.”

“Even the piss schedule of the Orlesian camp?” asked one of the scouts from the back of the room.

Laughing, Meryell replied, “Fine, maybe not _all_ of the inane. Just what applies to what we'll be doing out here.” She then stopped, shook her head, and asked, “And why the _fuck_ are you even taking note of that? No, better question, do you know _why_ they even have a piss schedule?”

There was a chuckle from amongst the gathering and Shade, standing at the front of the group, uncrossed his arms enough to point a single finger towards one of the few scouts. The young man flushed brightly, from his ears to where his neck disappeared beneath his armor, and shuffled his feet. “I thought one of the officers was doing something suspicious so I watched for them leaving through a certain gate.”

“Then I came to switch watches with him a few days after,” piped up the slightly older woman next to him with a grin, “and realized what the Orlesians were about. As to _why_ , Inquisitor, it's apparently a _rule_ in the Orlesian military.”

Blackwall snorted in amusement from behind her and Meryell barked a laugh before saying, “I'm going to have to ask my Captain if that's true. Then have a good hard laugh at his fucking country for having a full-on constant piss schedule. Maker's nuts, what a laugh.”

“Unfortunately that's one of the few we've got,” commented Shade grimly. “The actual fighting’s been quiet since the Empress and the Duke called a truce before Halamshiral but that hasn't kept everything all nice and pleasant.”

“Has there been interaction between them since the truce?” asked Cassandra.

The agent shook his head and replied, “Not since the undead.”

“Undead?” repeated Meryell with surprise, frowning. “We heard about desertion but not undead. Is this a recent development?”

Shade nodded before saying, “Last few weeks. We sent a report back to the Nightingale when we encountered them but that may have missed you.”

Meryell turned to look at Cassandra, arching an eyebrow at the idea. That she knew there had never been a raven lost in transit between any of their camps and to have it happen right around their time in Halamshiral was more than a little worrying. The stern look that the warrior returned, her eyes abruptly hard and flinty, said that she suspected something as well.

Looking back at Shade, she asked, “You sent it to Skyhold?”

“It should have arrived before you left but bad weather may have slowed the bird. We had a bitch of a storm right after she flew home.”

Glancing at Cassandra, Meryell arched a brow and the woman sighed. “Leliana left an agent of hers in charge when we left Skyhold. He has a name like a flower...”

“Lotus,” interjected Shade with a little bob of his head. “Mean old elf warrior who fought with Loghain back in the Rebellion as a Night Elf. Wouldn't cross him if my life depended on it. He would have sent the missive on to whoever was stationed in Halamshiral if it arrived after you left Skyhold, Inquisitor.” The man’s expression then went dark as he growled, “If it never arrived…”

“A traitor?” asked the young scout, his face pale beneath his helmet.

Meryell raised a hand and hissed, “Don't count your mabari before they've come off the bitch’s teat.” There were several low chuckles at the saying and she grinned at the collected group before she continued on. “We were just in the middle of the Game. It's possible that the message was intercepted by an opposing agent in the Winter Palace. Which is fucking _annoying_ but almost expected given that pit of snakes. No offense to any of you that actually are Orlesian.”

There was a bark of laughter from the back as a man with a thick Orlesian accent called out, “We all know the nobility are snakes, Inquisitor.”

“Bless the Maker for gifting common sense to someone in this country then,” she commented, which drew another laugh out of the crowd. Meryell then bared her teeth in what could barely be called a smile as she added, “We'll set the Nightingale on figuring out where our missing report went. She'll figure out what happened. Thankfully it would have been coded if you lot were sending it to her and I know how hard it is to crack codes.”

“What now then, Inquisitor?” asked Shade as he nodded his head in agreement.

Meryell tilted her head to the side before her smile turned honest.

“Now?” she replied. “Now we sit down and have us a chat. Let's start with this piss schedule, I'm in need of a laugh.”

The scout blushed again, ducking his head, and several of his fellow clapped him on the back. Meryell just crooked a finger at him and said, “Come on now, I don't bite.”

Blackwall snorted and she _distinctly_ heard him mutter, “That's not what those bites the Commander was trying to keep hidden when we left say.”

Ignoring the heat at the tips of her ears, she plucked at the scout’s sleeve and dragged him off into a corner to settle in for the first of what were probably many such conversations.

* * *

“ _Savhalla, hahren_ ,” Meryell said as she inclined her head to the elf who was obviously the leader of the small clan of Dalish they'd found. Keeper Hawen if she recalled the words of the hunter Olafin they'd run across correctly.

The Keeper narrowed his eyes at her before speaking in Common that bore the same accent that tore at her earliest memories. Exactly the same as the voice that had taught her Elven in hushed tones like it was a secret, that had lulled her into sleep with old tales and songs, the voice she had last heard as a broken whisper calling her _Pup_ while the knees of her threadbare trousers had soaked with his lifeblood.

It battered at her heart like a _storm_.

Suddenly she wanted Folke with her instead of off with the the other Fangs and Sergeant Olyver clearing the ramparts right outside Path of Flame.

“I did not expect one of the Suinasvenla to be with the Inquisition,” he commented mildly. “They typically do not tread alongside _shemlen_ . You are quite far from home, _asa’var’lin._ ”

_Cousin._

_Andraste’s flaming cunt, does he know where babae’s clan is?_

_Better yet, how did he know of the Suinasvenla?_

She must have stood there just staring for a moment because suddenly Cassandra’s hand pressed firmly along her spine at the same time Solas hissed, “ _Syla, da’len._ Breathe.”

Meryell inhaled sharply before she cracked a broken smile. She'd never wanted to be Dalish in her _life_ but never knowing the clan also meant never knowing her other grandparents, who had been alive and hale when her father had been taken. Nor knowing his little sister, her aunt who would never have been aware that she had a niece. They were what little blood family she had left and despite the company being her family for a decade, she wished but _once_ to speak to them.

If only to let them know their son had lived.

“Not sure how you knew but I'm afraid I'm just a shadow of the Suinasvenla, Keeper,” she said softly. “My _babae_ was of them, taken by templars as a mage while still a boy then left to the alienage when he proved without magic. He taught me the tongue.”

The Keeper looked deeply surprised, both of his eyebrows rising high, then said, “You speak the tongue perfectly in tone but I can hear the _shemlen_ tones in the Common.” He looked her up and down then before asking, “Your name, Inquisition.”

_She spoke her Elven with the same cadence as babae had?_

Meryell then stiffened before she forced herself to relax as the edge of Cassandra’s hand pressed into the leather of her armor reassuringly. “Meryell Verlen,” she replied and she saw _pain_ in his eyes at the last name she bore, the one her father had _chosen_ to bear. Then she went on, “Before he took the name, my _babae_ was Terys Arauven.”

“Terys Arauven has been claimed dead for more than three decades, Inquisition,” the Keeper said darkly, something of a snarl beneath his words. “Nearly four. I recall the Arlathvhen after he disappeared. He was given up for dead. To claim to be his child is quite unbelievable.”

She stiffened at the words and drew herself up as tall as she could, stepping away from Cassandra towards him. Anger burned in her belly at the idea that she was some kind of fucking liar about who her father had been. She may have lied about a lot of things in her life but _never_ about who her parents had been.

“I have a pouch he made when he was apprenticed to Issaron Mahariel,” she hissed. “It bears his mark and that of his old master. He _kept_ that mark and placed it on every piece he made after.”

Something passed over the Keeper’s face at the mention of her father's childhood teacher and he inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps you _are_ his,” he murmured. “Though only the Suinasvenla could confirm such a thing.”

Meryell _hated_ how her heart rose into her throat as she asked, “Do you know where they are, Keeper?”

Keeper Hawen looked at her for a long moment before he replied, “I know where the clan may be in a few months time. We arrange to cross paths with our cousins often given that we are the last to keep the tongue true. Yet, even if you are a _shadow_ of the Suinasvenla, I cannot trust you so freely with that place.”

She wanted to _snarl_ but didn't. This was just another negotiation and bit of playing fucking nice. Just like Halamshiral.

Instead of snarling, Meryell bore down on her spitting anger and asked, “How can the Inquisition earn your trust, Keeper?”

“The Inquisition and yourself are two different things, _da’len._ ”

“She _is_ the Inquisitor,” intoned Cassandra suddenly, her voice like good steel. And Meryell _adored_ the surprise on the Keeper’s face at that.

“One would not expect the _shemlen_ to raise one of our own so high. Particularly not one carrying the blood of the People.”

Meryell heard Solas made a subtle snorting noise from behind her and reached an arm back to flick her fingers at him in the battle gesture for _quiet_ . The mage stilled with a low chuckle and a murmured, “As you will, _da’len_.”

The Keeper frowned at them then said, “Very well. Earn the trust of my clan, Inquisition, and perhaps I may be inclined to share the meeting place with a long lost cousin.”

“ _Serannasan ma_ ,” murmured Meryell as she inclined her head towards him.

“Do not thank me yet, Inquisitor,” replied the Keeper. “It is yet to be seen if you will impress my clan.”

She nodded slowly before saying, “I thank you for the opportunity to do so then, _hahren_.”

Hawen smiled at that and then gestured them forward into the camp. Meryell felt Cassandra’s hand grip her elbow as she started to take a step forward and turned to meet the warrior's gaze. The older woman’s dark eyes bored into her, full of some sort of question, and she met that silent query with an arched brow.

Then Cassandra was moving forward with her, leaning in close to hiss, “Is this for you or the Inquisition?”

Blinking at her, Meryell replied, “Can't it be both?”

 _That_ made some of the hard concern leave the other woman's face, replaced with regret. “Forgive me, Inquisitor,” she said softly. “I should not doubt your intentions.”

Shaking her head, she switched their positions so she was now holding Cassandra’s elbow. “ _Never_ fear calling me on my shit, Cass,” she hissed. “I don't want my friends following me blindly if they think I'm doing something stupid.”

“You may regret telling me that.”

Laughing, Meryell replied, “ _Never_ ,” and then she turned away to look around the small encampment of the clan. Looking at what her life could have been if _babae_ had never been taken.

Of course, that would have meant never learning to climb the rickety rafters and structures in the alienage. Never listening to _mamae_ recite the Chant with all the bearing and seriousness of a _noble_ . And _babae_ perhaps never realizing how wrong some parts of the culture he'd been born into had been.

No, no, she might have a soft spot for the Dalish but they weren't her people. And she wasn't theirs.

“Don't worry, Cassandra,” Meryell said softly, just enough that only the other woman could hear her. “This world of theirs still isn't mine, just the same as it stopped being _babae_ ’s. No matter how much I may want to meet his clan just the once, that doesn't change.”

“You are certain?” asked the older woman.

Smiling, Meryell looked at her and asked, “What do I need them for, Cass? I already have two clans and I damn sure don't need a third. Besides, they'd probably tell me to curb my language and that shit isn't happening.”

That made the warrior laugh and Cassandra clapped a hand on her shoulder while smiling down at her.

“I am not certain what it entails to the Dalish,” she said warmly, “but I am proud to be included as part of your clan.”

Grinning at her, Meryell replied, “Fuck what it means to the Dalish. All it really means to _me_ is what we already do: watching each other's backs.”

“And I will continue to do so, my friend.”

“So will I, Cass. So will I.”

* * *

_“Babae!”_

_“Ara dharlin!"_

_Babae scooped her up as she burst out the door of their home and she giggled brightly as he spun her around in the air before lowering her down to settle in the crook of his arm. His lips pressed against her cheek before he asked, "And what mischief have you been up to today, sweetling? Not causing trouble for your mamae, are you?"_

_"Din, babae," she replied, kicking her feet idly against his belly. "I learned my numbers! Up to ten!"_

_"Your numbers! In Common and Elven?" When she just smiled, he laughed and said, "Well then, recite them for me. I want to hear what you've learned."_

_She nodded sharply and scrunched up her nose as she carefully recited, "One. Sa. Two. Ta. Three. Tan. Four. Ny. Five. Va. Six. No. Seven. Noa. Eight. Han. Nine. Uan. Ten. Asan!"_

_"On, on! You are the smartest little girl in all of Thedas!"_

_"Nuh-uh!"_

_Babae smiled brightly at her and asked, "Would I lie to you, ara dharlin?"_

_And with that she was on her knees, older by several years, with Babae's body splayed out on the ground before her with blood pooling beneath him. Yet she was also her current age, staring in horror down at her younger self as she shook and screamed, "You lied, you lied, you lied! Hamelan! HAMELAN!"_

_Meryell spun to flee from the sight and found herself face-to-face abruptly with the dragon from Haven and she screamed as its massive maw lunged at her_.

She jerked upright with a gasp, flailing out of her bedroll and blanket in a blind attempt to get away from the beast. Her hand automatically found one of her daggers, one of the small hand-length flat hilted ones that she tucked into sheaths along her shins and forearms, as she bolted out of the tangle. One foot nearly twisted as it got caught in the blanket but she stumbled, freeing herself, before crashing through the door flap of the tent.

Meryell came to a stop in a fighting stance, blade at the ready and her mouth set into a snarl. The fever bright rush that came with a battle thrummed through her with both familiarity and a foreign feeling that she couldn't quite decipher. Her eyes darted around, seeking out the dragon from her dreams, but there was only the low crackle of the camp fire.

 _It isn't here_.

Half of her mind insisted - knew for certain - but the rest was still in the fight or flight mode that made her muscles tight.

She abruptly registered a noise and movement nearby, turning on it with a snarl. Dark hair, broad shoulders, and a large beard registered but the facial features didn't in her still frayed mind. Meryell did the logical thing after that in her mind: lack of recognition meant stranger and stranger while she felt in danger meant _do not hesitate, go on the attack_.

Her first lunge missed just barely and was accompanied by a gruff sounding oath that she couldn't make out. As she bared her teeth and tried again, Elven expletives spilling from her lips, a large and calloused hand closed around her wrist. The fingers dug into her nerves and she hissed as the man shook her weapon out of her hand.

Didn't matter. She didn't need a weapon.

Her other hand flashed up at his face, aiming for his nose, but he seemed to have been expecting the dirty move. As he caught her other wrist, the man spun her around and used her now crossed arms to help pin her back against his chest. Meryell snarled and kicked out with her heels, knowing she hit at least one of his knees when he cursed.

Then beard hairs tickled her ear as Blackwall growled in a pained tone, “Come back down, lass. There's no one here that's going to harm you.”

Meryell stiffened against him and reality abruptly - and harshly - registered itself.

They were camped in an old ruin, not too far from where Chuckles’ friend was in trouble. He'd wanted to go ahead there but she'd managed to talk him out if going in the dark like a fucking fool and getting them all killed. So they'd made camp and someone kept an eye out for the approach of the rest of their group that was coming to join them for the task. They'd all fallen asleep with the plan being to rise early to go assess the situation and deal with it.

And then she recalled the nightmare.

A violent shudder ran through her whole body and Meryell couldn't stop the broken sob that came from her. The high was leaving her now, the fear of the dragon at Haven forgotten. In its wake, it left only the years old agony and pain.

“Maker’s cock,” she heard Blackwall hiss. One of his arms was around her waist then, lifting her up off her feet. That was all she registered until her feet touched the ground again as he carefully laid her down on what felt like a blanket. She blinked open her eyes to see him bent over the fire as he urged it back up from coals, cursing at it under his breath.

Then he was crouching in front of her and she realized he was only in his shirtsleeves, which was new. Typically he was always in his padded gambeson up until camp broke down for bed. His expression was oddly...fond...as he reached down to brush her hair back from her face with a gentle touch. Thankfully he didn't brush it behind her ears since she was certain he didn't know her aversion to touch.

“You're alright, lass,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. Like he was trying to calm a spooked hound or horse. “Nothing here but us.”

Meryell licked her lips briefly before breathing, “M’sorry.”

“For what?”

“Attacking you.”

Blackwall chuckled dryly at that and then eased himself down onto the ground next to her. He rested a hand on her shoulder, a simple, easy gesture of _I am here_ as he said, “Not the first time a lady’s come after me with a knife. Don't worry your head about it.”

She wondered what stories were behind that comment but didn't care enough to ask. Not when she could still see the echo of _babae’s_ face in her mind, even though it was already fading. Honestly she wasn't even sure if she was recalling him correctly.

His voice, though. His voice she knew.

And hearing it twice in one day in two different echoes was almost too much.

Meryell curled her body up tighter on the blanket and abruptly reached out to grab the material of Blackwall’s pants for something, _anything_ , to hold on to. His hand squeezed her shoulder in return, a silent acknowledgement of his presence.

Fucking bless him for not asking what was wrong. He simply sat there in silence with her, only the crackle of the fire breaking the quiet. It was pleasant and familiar to simply have someone accept that she would talk if she wanted to. To simply be there as a reminder that she was safe and nothing more.

And when she was finally able to shake the memories as well as the taut stiffness from her limbs, Blackwall gave her a simple smile accompanied by a hand up from the ground.

“Thank you,” she said warmly as they stood there for a moment after.

He merely nodded and replied in a low voice, “I'll be here if you need someone again.”

That made Meryell pause and she looked at him again, suddenly seeing his tired eyes. She’d thought it was his watch and that was why he was awake. Now she suspected he'd been up from nightmares himself.

Frowning, she commented idly, “Well...it’d be a fucking shame to waste the fire.” And she saw him grin behind his beard.

“Damn fine shame,” he agreed.

Picking up the blanket, she shook the grass out of it before wrapping it around her shoulders. Blackwall had already settled back down on the ground and as she dropped back down next to him, he held out a well-worn flask he'd pulled from somewhere.

Chuckling, Meryell took the offered flask and tipped it back, tasting shitty whiskey immediately. She started coughing as soon as it was down her throat, shoving the flask back at him as he laughed. “That's fucking _terrible_ ,” she managed to choke out. “What by the Maker’s knotted prick is that?”

“Orlesian whiskey,” he replied with a laugh as he took a swig. She just stared at him in disgust before shaking her head.

“Ugh. Really? Orlesians make shit whiskey.”

“Acquired taste,” Blackwall commented wryly. Meryell turned to glare at him at that and scowled. Then she held out a hand and he chuckled before giving her back the flask. “I thought it was shit.”

Snorting, she replied, “It is shit but I don't turn down free alcohol.”

The man barked out a laugh at that, shaking his head before he commented, “You are something else, lass. Something else indeed.”

“Thanks?” Meryell said, posing it as more a question than a comment.

“It's a good thing,” Blackwall assured. He took the flask back a moment later, taking a long pull from it before he spoke again. “It's a refreshing thing to watch someone be unabashedly themselves. You make excuses to no one for who you are, not even the Commander.”

That was a lie because she did sometimes at her lowest but Cullen never accepted her words as they were.

The man next to her stared into the fire as he went on, “You're unapologetically you.” His voice was melancholy, almost jealous, and Meryell realized again that she knew so little about the Warden at her side. They'd shared fires and food and drinks in the tavern over ridiculous stories but...little else. She knew he had secrets, shit he kept close to his breast and didn't tell a soul. Who _didn't_ have secrets in the Inquisition though?

Blackwall lapsed into silence after that and Meryell just sat next to him for a long moment before she leaned over to nudge him with her blanket covered shoulder. When he turned to look at her, offering the flask again, she shook her head.

“Do you think you can't do the same?” she asked softly. When he immediately looked away, she knew the answer was no.

What was he hiding?

No, better yet, what parts of who he was weren't real?

“I've done a lot of things I've regretted, lass,” the warrior rumbled under his breath after a moment. His gaze was haunted as he focused it back on the fire. “Things that you don't just come back from.”

“So have I,” Meryell noted. “So have Cullen and Cass and Leliana. I'm betting you could talk to any member of the Inquisition and they'd tell you a similar fucking story.”

Blackwall’s face was oddly ashen behind his beard now as he breathed, “Not like this.”

Frowning, she leaned into him briefly and sternly said, “Blackwall, look at me. _Look at me.”_ He hesitated for a moment then slowly turned to look down at her.

Meryell had never noticed before that his eyes were gray like Folke’s. If one had to compare the two, however, then her _baba”s_ eyes were the gray of heavy Ferelden fogs - the sort that clung thickly to the ground and concealed everything. Blackwall’s on the other hand, were the gray of the Storm Coast’s sea and as equally wind-tossed and turbulent.

“Whatever it is in your past that you're ashamed of,” she began a moment later, “I don't give two rotten shits about it. I've done things in my life that would have my neck in a fucking _noose_ if I didn't have the company to back me up. You think I haven't heard stories of heinous deeds? You think that everyone in the Fangs is a damned saint?”

“We're not,” Meryell plowed on. “Furthest from it.”

“Lass…”

Shaking her head, she interrupted him with, “Whatever it fucking is, Blackwall. What matters to me is what you do now, not some shit that happened in your past. The only thing you've got to do with that shit is own it.”

If anything his face went even more ashen before he said, “You don't even know what it was.”

“I don't look at people for what they did,” Meryell snapped a little more harshly than she meant to. “If I did, I wouldn't be able to love my father as much as I do. Or Cullen, for that matter. If they regret it and want to be better, that's enough for me.” She then looked sternly at him and added, “I will have your back in this, same as I have it on the field when you've got mine.”

Blackwall blinked several times then looked away from her, turning his gaze back towards the fire. She watched him swallow thickly before he softly said, “I don't deserve it.”

“Not about fucking deserving it, asshole,” she grumbled. “Sometimes folks just want to give shit.”

He laughed at that - the sound half choked in his throat - then murmured, “You really are something else.”

Meryell shrugged nudged him with her shoulder again as she commented, “I think I'm exactly what I fucking need to be. Now share some more of that shit you've got, I need a drink.”

This time an honest laugh came from the man and he handed over the flask with a strained smile. As she tipped it back to drink, Blackwall said quietly, “If...if it comes to me owning it, you'll know. Out of anyone, I'll tell _you_ , lass.”

She just smiled at him and nodded as the whiskey burned down her throat before passing the flask back to him. He took it in silence and finished off the last, tucking it away somewhere underneath his shirt. Then his elbow knocked into hers and he laughed before asking, “Commander won't get jealous if he hears about this?”

“He knows where my heart belongs,” Meryell replied before leaning up against him. “Unless _you_ aren't comfortable. I tuck up close with half the menfolk in the Fangs, not to mention Dorian and Varric when we all get toasty.”

“Just making sure I keep my head when we get back to Skyhold.”

“Anyone that says shit happened’ll answer to my fucking knives. Like I said, I've got your back.”

Blackwall smiled at that and nodded, murmuring, “And I yours, lass,” before they lapsed into silence. No more words were needed to be spoken, however.

They knew where the other stood when it mattered and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven/Elvhen Translations**
> 
>  
> 
> savhalla - saluations, hello  
> asa'var'lin - cousin  
> syla - breathe  
> serannasan ma - I thank you  
> hamelan - liar
> 
> Elven numbers are all taken from Project Elvhen.


	56. "I know enough about spirits to know that they're living things worthy of care, Chuckles. And, believe me, I don't blame you one inch for your rage.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The issue with Solas' friend is finally dealt with and Meryell discovers that there is a second thing that she and the elf will always butt heads on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay in this one, guys! Life's been busy for me and [Cilera](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CileraDragonfang/pseuds/CileraDragonfang) but here we are, finally, with 56. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for 57 to be on time.

“ _My friend_.”

“Your ‘friend’ is a Pride demon!” exploded Cassandra but Meryell ignored the comment, waving the older woman to back off. She heard the _pain_ in Solas’ voice and stepped towards him. His eyes were on the sight before them: the obvious containment circle for summoning, the three frantically milling about mages in battered robes, and the Pride demon towering above it all, massive and _wrong_ in a way that set the teeth on edge.

“ _Hahren_ ,” she said flatly, trying to draw his attention away. When it didn't work, Meryell snapped, “Solas!”

His name invoked by her did the trick and he managed to tear his gaze away from the horrorshow before them. “ _Da’len._ ”

“What can we do?” she asked, beckoning towards her father as well. Folke came to join them quietly, his gray eyes focused and intent as he looked at the situation. “ _Hahren_ , tell me. What can we do to help your friend?”

Solas drew in a deep breath - shockingly sound without a single waver in it - and replied in a steady voice, “We must break the circle. It is binding it, twisting it from its true purpose.”

Folke frowned at that, saying, “Not disagreeing with you because you know far more than I do about spirits, Chuckles, but wouldn't that _release_ the demon?”

“It is only a demon _because_ it has been bound. They have…” Something harsh and _furious_ passed over Solas’ face and Meryell abruptly never wanted to be on the other side of the elf. Not if he was wearing that particular expression.

That was the sort of look that accompanied a _kill out of anger_.

“They have bound it to a purpose not its own,” continued the other elf. “Breaking that binding should release to to return to its natural state.”

“You're certain?”

Solas’ head whipped around towards her, mouth curled into the beginning of a snarl, and Meryell scowled, not _about_ to let him get away with that shit with her. “ _You’re_ the expert here, Chuckles,” she snapped, not letting him get the first word in. “Spirits are your thing and I'll follow your lead on this.  So long as you're fucking _damned certain_ that we aren't about to be potentially releasing a fucking Pride demon on a region that's seen enough shit.”

He stared at her for a long moment before he softly said, “I am certain, _da’len_.”

Nodding, Meryell made a gesture to Olyver, who stepped forward with a brief salute of his fist against his shoulder blade. “Where shall I have my men, Inquisitor?” he asked.

“Half of your men came with you from the ramparts, right?”

“Aye, ma’am. Edine’s holding that down since she's Orlesian and can bully the stubborn lot into doing what she needs. We split the company even when we came to meet you and I've got Dairin with me.” Olyver then scratched at the stubble on his chin before adding, “That's about thirty or so men.”

Nodding, Meryell ordered, “Split them in half, one side with you and the other with Dairin, and surround them on both sides. Until we’re sure what these mages were about, I don't want to take chances.” She then waved over at Dragos, who'd come with her father while Rebecca had stayed behind to help Edine terrify the Orlesian forces.

“Where do you need me?” asked the former templar, his accent more like Krem’s than Dorian’s more well bred one.

“Circle around with Olyver’s men and hold the shore,” she replied. “We'll have three sets of magic knowing eyes with us approaching from the front, so I'd like one on the other side of this thing. Plus you can watch the demon’s backside and give us warning if it looks like it's about to charge.”

Dragos frowned, his expression serious and a little haunted (the way he always looked when demons were involved), then nodded. He grinned faintly as he clasped a fist over his heart and murmured, “As you will, Inquisitor.”

Meryell huffed in annoyance at him for using her title before growling fondly, “Get the fuck out.” He chuckled mildly before tilting his head at Olyver and the two men walked off together, talking quietly as they made their way over to where Dairin was ordering their half of the squad into neat lines. She looked at Folke and Solas then and said, “Both of you on either side of me and Cass and Blackwall behind us with a pace to the side so they don't have to go through us for a charge.”

“You really think these mages are going to put up a fight?” asked Blackwall gruffly, his arms crossed as he regarded the still frantically milling figures in the distance.

“Best to be ready if they do.” Meryell then turned towards Olyver and called, “Sergeant!” As soon as he turned to look, she added, “Move out!”

“You heard the Inquisitor, lads!” he barked immediately. “Half of you with Dairin for the north and half of you with me for south. We hold the line once we make it, you got that?”

There was the sharp sound of thirty or so voices calling back, “ _Yes, ser!_ ” and then the squad split up. Meryell watched them for a moment before she spoke again.

“We're trying to free the spirit if we can, remember that. If you _have_ to defend yourself or an ally, do so.” Solas’ lips pursed into a thin line as she turned to look that him then. She just narrowed her eyes as she finished, “If not, take out the components of the summoning circle. They're first fucking priority.”

“This does not seem like the wisest course of action,” Cassandra noted sternly. “It would be easier to simply destroy the demon.”

Folke shook his head at that and said before Meryell could, “Easier doesn't necessarily mean it's the right path, Seeker.”

The older woman frowned at him for a long moment before she inclined her head, murmuring, “Well said.”

She waited a moment for anything else that might be said, then when there was only silence Meryell lifted her hand with fingers flat and flashed it forward twice at the wrist in the gesture that meant _move in_. Even without them ever working together in sequence, Olyver and his men moved forward to surround the area, closing in at the same time they approached as if they had done it dozens of times. Meryell smiled briefly at their well-oiled work then focused her attention on the mage approaching them warily.

“Hold!” barked Cassandra, stepping around from the left side with her shield in position to cover Meryell. The mage stopped, his throat bobbing nervously, before he called out to them. She could see his eyes flick over Solas’ staff and Folke’s battered enchanter’s coat before he did so.

“Mages?” he asked. “And you're not with the bandits?” His eyes darted frantically, taking in Cassandra’s stony features and Solas’ quietly burning rage, before asking, “Do you have any lyrium? We've been fighting that demon and we’re exhausted.”

“ _You_ summoned that demon!” exploded Solas suddenly. “Except it was a spirit of Wisdom at the time! You corrupted it. You made it _kill_.”

The mage, obviously half delirious from magical exhaustion, didn't quite seem to grasp the exact level of danger he was in. Instead of getting the fuck out of the way, he stammered, “I...I...can see how this might be confusing for someone who hasn't dealt with demons but…” Folke interrupted whatever else he was going to say with a great barking laugh before he flung out a hand at Solas.

“Don't talk about knowing _demons_ and _spirits_ , boy,” he spat viciously. “He's probably forgotten more about them than you ever deigned to learn.”

That brought the mage’s hackles up and he straightened up, exclaiming, “I was one of the foremost experts in the Kirkwall Circle…”

“ _Shut. Up_ ,” Meryell and Solas growled together. She didn't know his reasoning (beyond being _pissed_ ) but she knew that there probably hadn't been _anyone_ in Kirkwall who’d publicly been an expert on spirits. Not from what Cullen had shared with her about the inner workings of that Circle.

Stepping forward, she jabbed a finger at the mage as she spat, “If you and your friends want to keep a _sliver_ of your miserable asses intact, I recommend you keep that mouth of yours shut. We got an understanding?”

The mage started to open his mouth then froze when she arched an eyebrow. He swallowed hard, the knot in his throat bobbing, then nodded several times.

“Good. Now get the fuck out of the way. And don't run.” She paused dramatically before adding, “If you or your friends run, the Inquisition will chase you. And our ravens tend to find what they seek.”

As the man’s face went ashen, Meryell turned away from him and shouted, “Move in! Close up ranks and _hold_ , Sergeant!”

“Aye, ma’am!” came Olyver’s shout from somewhere as his men closed up, forming a line of shields on either side of the demon. The other two mages raced towards them, eyes wide and panicked as they fled from a possible new threat. These two though apparently had enough wits left rattling around in their skulls to look at the stony countenances and think _I maybe shouldn't say anything_. They just joined their counterpart and the three of them stood in a shivering huddle as Meryell and the rest approached the demon.

“Summoning stones instead of a circle?” asked Folke as they approached. “That's...that’s _Chasind_ work. I remember there was an old witch who visited my mother sometimes who told me about them. Tried to teach me how to make one but the mana required to pull them together was always too much for me. Where'd they _find_ this?”

“The spellwork of the Chasind has perhaps worked its way into that of the Circles,” suggested Solas. “I imagine there are several crossovers.”

Meryell turned her head to watch her father shrug idly while he drew his sword from somewhere underneath his coat. “True,” he admitted. “At least I know how to break these. If this was a Circle taught summoning, I'd be useless for breaking it. These are far easier. Shall we get to work then?”

Nodding, she drew her daggers and replied, “Let’s. Cass, Blackwall, you're on keeping that thing distracted. If need be, we can have Dragos step in to hassle it on the backside. Chuckles, _baba_ , and I will take out the stones.”

Cassandra frowned but gripped her shield tighter and Blackwall drew his heavy greatsword with a sigh. He then hefted the weapon up into a defensive stance and said, “After you, Seeker.”

“Ha, a gentleman,” commented the female warrior before she started moving forward.

That just made the man snort and reply, “ _Practical_. I don't want to be the man who gets in your way.”

Cassandra barked a brief huff of laughter at that, firmly stating, “ _You_ would not be,” before she shouted wordlessly to attract the attention of the demon. It roared, spittle and blood flying everywhere, and charged at the warrior as she readied her shield. Blackwall threw his weight against Cassandra’s armored back to help brace her from the blow and then Meryell noticed nothing else of their distraction as she focused on the stones.

Solas had his attention on one of the farthest from them, his staff a whirling dervish of magical capability as he cast fire and ice over the stones. Freezing and burning again and again in turn until the stones began to crumble and fall.

Folke had turned his attention on the closest stone, his sword striking it in small strikes that didn't look like they were doing much of anything. She knew, however, that he could cast magic with the blade (specifically forged for that purpose) and was probably channeling some kind of spell into it judging by the harsh look of concentration on his face.

That left her to pick one of the other four stones and she chose the one to the right mostly opposite the one Chuckles was after. The circle the mages had crafted with the stones was more than a little lopsided but apparently still accurate enough to pull a summons off. Though maybe with whatever this method was it didn't require a perfect circle.

Meryell shook her head then slashed out, bringing both daggers down in a ‘x’ shaped strike that cut a deep groove into the rocks. She then kicked out at it, the jarring force of the blow rattling up her leg. It made smaller bits fall off of the gathered stones but didn't bring it down. She set her mouth in a snarl and repeated the motion until she kicked the whole thing down. At the same time there was a brief rumble from the ground beneath them and she heard Folke shout. When she turned her head to glance at him, he was in a defensive stance and breathing hard over his stone, which was now in several pieces. Even from where she was, Meryell could see sweat on his brow and the slightly ashen pallor to his cheeks. He had exerted himself with whatever magic he'd used to turn it into a bit of rubble.

“ _Baba_ , step back!” she shouted, idly taking in Blackwall barely dodging a swipe of the demon’s massive arm. “Dragos, take the last stone!”

The former templar barked a wordless shout in response and darted forward, already swinging the pair of spiked maces that he'd been using since he'd joined the company.

Within a few swings, his stone was pummeled into dust and the others that Solas and she had focused on followed soon after. There was a ground shaking _roar_ as the Pride demon threw back its head before the grotesque, unnatural body faded away. The slim, humanoid form that replaced it was oddly airy yet solid as it crumpled to the ground and Solas was there to catch it. Meryell watched for a moment as he gently bore the spirit to the ground and, given the grieving look on his face, she decided to give them a moment.

Especially since Solas’ first words were _I'm sorry_ and the spirit’s were _I'm not_.

Sheathing her daggers, she quickly moved over to her father. Tucking herself against his side with her shoulder under his, she gently removed the sword from his slightly shaking hand and sheathed it for him. As she got that close, she was overwhelmed by the abrupt smell of freshly turned earth and scowled.

“Earth magic?” questioned Meryell, glaring up at him. “Are you crazy or fucking stupid?”

Folke laughed and hugged her with his arm, turning his head to lean his forehead against her cheek. “Both,” he replied, “as you well know.”

Scoffing, she reached up to wrap the fingers of her other hand around his wrist. She scowled before scolding under her breath, “You know the toll it takes on you. The cost it demands.”

“I'm aware, Poppet.”

“And you remember Gil’s warning?” she snapped, anger and fear warring for dominance in her tone. Gray eyes lifted to met hers squarely and her father nodded before he spoke again.

“I remember the fucking risks I take with it, girlie,” he intoned firmly. “One little bit of earth magic isn't going to kill me, no matter what Gil says about it. I know my limits far better than that worry wart does.”

“Asshole.”

Folke just snorted then leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “I'm not intending on going anywhere anytime soon, _ara vherain_. So stop looking at me like I'm going to disappear on you.”

Meryell stiffened for a moment and felt his arm curl tightly around her shoulders. Had she been looking at him like that? It made a kind of sense given her dream the night before but she hadn't even realized she was doing it. Hadn't realized she had even been _thinking_ of it.

Yet...there it was.

And it was so easy to replace _babae’s_ dead body with Folke’s.

Huffing out a breath, she gruffly stated, “I worry when you do stupid shit.” She wasn't about to give voice to anything else, not right then.

He gave her a long look that said he saw right through her and softly said, “You worry about me a lot more than that, Poppet, and you and I both know it. Same as I worry about you. Now...let's go see if we can do anything for that spirit.”

She just nodded and helped him walk over to where Solas was now crouched on the ground, his hand hovering near the shoulder of the spirit of Wisdom. There were whispered words in Elven that she couldn't make out and a few that she didn't even know a translation for. They sounded...old. Like they didn't belong with the rest and the language that she knew.

Just as she started to open her mouth to say something, the spirit smiled and melted away as Solas closed his eyes. “ _Dar’eth shiral_ ,” she heard him say and the sorrow deep inside his voice made her eyes sting.

Meryell knew the pain of loss far too well to not recognize that hurt in someone else.

“ _Dar’atisha,_ ” she breathed and Folke echoed it a moment later, his arm tight around her shoulders. The bald elf let out a breath before he rose to his feet, head bowed slightly.

“Thank you, _da’len_ ,” Solas murmured.

She just nodded then began, “Is it…?”

“It is rare for a spirit to truly die,” he replied, his eyes focused beyond them, seemingly on the shoreline and the lake. Meryell knew his gaze wasn't truly looking at that though. She'd stared enough days at cracked wooden doors and her own hands, seeing her father's face in both, to know that one didn't always see what was in front of them. “The spirit it was, that I knew, will be gone. Yet something new may grow in its place in the Fade someday.”

His expression then abruptly hardened and he said sharply, “All that remains now is _them_.”

As the other elf started to turn away, she released her grip on Folke’s wrist and reached for his. Solas turned, eyes narrowed and harsh, and he hissed, “They tortured it. They _killed_ my friend. Would you defend them, _da’len_?”

Narrowing her eyes back at him, she spat, “I know enough about spirits to know that they're living things worthy of care, Chuckles. And, believe me, I don't blame you one inch for your rage.” She then leaned forward as much as she could with Folke leaning on her, hissing, “But tell me, _hahren_ , what will killing them bring you except fucking blood on your hands? What will _more death_ accomplish?”

His head snapped back and he snarled, “You would _free them_?”

“Did I fucking _say that_?” she snapped back, eyes narrowed. He glared back at her, a bit of that fury in his eyes that she hadn't wanted to see turned towards her, and she growled, “You tell me right now what I've ever done while we've known each other that would give you the impression that I'd let people off when they deserve punishment?”

When Solas’ eyes shifted immediately to her father, Meryell scowled and released his wrist to snap her fingers at his face. “When they _don't_ want to admit they did wrong or make what amends they can in life.” How fucking _dare he_ act like the company or her father were the same? They weren't _saints_ by any means but they weren't like these assholes either.

He acknowledged her comment with a brief nod and a murmured, “I concede that point, _da’len._ My apologies, Folke.”

Folke just chuckled and commented, "No offense taken, Chuckles. I know full well what I've done in life and all I should owe for it. I fucking _know_ I've gotten off rather easy." He then cocked his head in the direction of the three mages before he continued on, his tone darkening. "This lot aren't like any of ours. And you're damned lucky I didn't take offense to the idea that myself and the company are the same as them.”

"It was a low blow, I will admit that. _Ir abelas_.”

" _Din telselin_ ," replied her father with as much of a casual shrug as he could manage. He then asked, "So what do we do with them instead, Poppet?”

Meryell frowned before she answered with a question. "How does one charge three mages with the willful murder of a being that most would claim doesn't deserve to be considered the same way a human or elf would?” Solas’ expression instantly went stormy again and she stared hard at him. "Tell me, _hahren_ , how do I do that?”

The other elf's jaw was tight, all of the muscles in his neck drawn up in tense lines, as he hissed, "Nothing would be enough, _da'len_.”

She shook her head at that and sadly noted, "It's _never_ enough when someone you care about dies, Chuckles. Not. Once.”

He stared at her for a long moment before he breathed, "No. No, it is not.”

"Find out who they are," suggested Folke, his voice abruptly startling them both a little. When they both looked at him, he continued, "The one said he was from Kirkwall. If he wasn't lying, Cullen should know of him or one of the other templars he brought with him will. Confirm who they are first.”

"And then?" asked Meryell.

Folke shrugged as much as he could with his arm still across her shoulders. “If you want them to be judged proper, then you need people that know the victim properly. Which means gathering mages that know how spirits work and understand exactly how they work.”

She frowned then said, "Let mages judge mages. That's what you're saying. Let those who are knowledgeable examine the crime and judge it upon its merits.”

"There's an equivalent in the Circles and we do similar amongst ourselves to keep everyone in line, as you know, Poppet. Wouldn't be hard to adjust that to strangers and make it the way the Inquisition works when mages fuck up.”

Nodding, Meryell agreed, "That sounds pretty damned reasonable, _baba_.”

Folke hummed under his breath and flicked his fingers lightly against the lowest curve of her ear before commenting, "You say that as if most things I say _aren't_ reasonable.”

She just scoffed lightly in response then looked at Solas. His attention was focused away from them, back towards where the three mages huddled, and his expression was starkly blank of all emotion. Then he seemed to finally register her attention and as he turned his head towards her, she asked, "What say you, Chuckles?”

His eyebrows twitched slightly then he looked away again as he asked, "Does my opinion matter? You are Inquisitor, _da'len_ , you have no need to answer to my whims."

Meryell narrowed her eyes at that before growling, "Don't give me that fucking _pissant_ answer, _hahren_. You _know_ what I'm asking and you know damned well _why_ I'm asking.” She just stared at him when she was done speaking, waiting to hear his response. The other elf just frowned at her in reply as if he weren't taking her seriously and she said sternly, "This was _your_ friend. What they did to this spirit would set the precedent for fucking _everything_. If we could make this something, it could change the viewpoint about spirits entirely for mages."

He just looked at her evenly for a moment before saying, "I am not responsible for the fool decisions of others.”

Glaring at him, she hissed, " _Fine._ You want to be a fucking shitheel about this when your friend just _died_ at the hands of idiots, that's fine. That's fucking _fine_. We'll see that maybe something actually changes.”

"It is a fool's errand, _da'len_. I learned long ago that they will not learn."

"Like trying to teach the Dalish what they got wrong, _hahren_?" Meryell snapped.

Solas stared at her again for a moment, his gaze abruptly stark, before he said, “Another thing we shall perhaps fail to agree upon." Then he scowled and asked, "You intend to take them back to Skyhold?”

"Kind of a requirement for them to be judged.”

"Then I will return on my own. I will not travel with those who have done such deeds...and there are things I must think upon.”

_Fucking hypocrite!_

Meryell worked her jaw for a long moment, furiously trying to control her temper so she didn't just take the Maker damned fool's fucking head off. It was most hypocritical thing she had ever heard, saying that there was no use in punishing the mages who had murdered his ’friend‘ in one breath and then in the next refusing to even travel with them. Did he care or did he not? Or was it only that he was angry that they would avoid the punishment he would have meted out?

She understood the anger. She didn't understand the stubborn mindset that things couldn't be changed. That people couldn't _learn_.

Even when she insisted that most folks didn't want to see an elf above them, she knew there were people that were fine with it. That one day humans might no longer look on elves with disdain. She would never see it herself but she held on to the hope that humans would someday change.

"Go then, _hahren_ ," she hissed between clenched teeth. Meryell then shook her head before saying a parting, " _Sule tael tasalal._ ”

Solas’ shoulders stiffened slightly, straightening up into a sharp line before he finally replied, " _Sule melan'an._ ” Then he turned away, striding off without looking back or at any of those that he passed. Especially not the three mages who had so nearly become his victims.

When he was out of earshot, Meryell sighed heavily and breathed, "Fuck.”

"Fuck is a good word for it," Folke commented as he straightened up from leaning on her. He then frowned after the retreating elf before asking, "You think he'll go along with it? I'd have thought he would be for it with what just happened to his friend.”

"So did I, _baba_ ," she replied. "Apparently we were both wrong.”

She would worry about dealing with Solas’ shit later.

Meryell then patted him on the back and asked, "You feel like you can walk, old man? And keep up?”

He laughed dryly in response before answering. "The day I can't keep up with you at a walk or run, Poppet, is the day my rotten ass is in the fucking ground. Now let's go. We've got idiots to get sorted whenever you're going to put them before we head back and more shit to sort out.”

"No rest for the wicked," she said with a smile before heading back towards everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven/Elvhen Translations**
> 
> Dar’eth shiral - Safe journey
> 
> Dar’atisha - Go in peace
> 
> Ir abelas - I'm sorry
> 
> Din telselin - No worries
> 
> Sule tael tasalal - Until we meet again
> 
> Sule melan'an - Until then


	57. "But there is a difference in being scared and letting it control you. You mustn't let fear control what you do.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen awakens to find Mathis Hawke in his tower and the small journey across Skyhold that follows him taking the boy back to his mother ends up leading to a conversation with Treva that goes far deeper than he expected. And leads him to a few realizations that give a shift in perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry slightly belated Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone! Have a holiday gift!
> 
> I've been sitting on this chapter for ages (mostly because I wanted to finish 58 first and it's being stubborn as hell) but finally decided to just go ahead and throw it out. I'm sincerely hoping that 58 will stop giving me so much trouble and we can go back to a regular posting schedule.

When he woke with the distinct feeling that he was being watched, Cullen first imagined that somehow Meryell had made it home in far better timing than expected. As soon as he opened his eyes, however, he knew that wasn't the case. Largely because she wasn't curled around him like a leech but mostly because he immediately saw _ blue _ eyes, not _ green _ over the edge of his bed.

"Elo, Cu'en," came a childish voice and he frowned. That was…

"Mathis?" he questioned, propping himself up on an elbow. The four year-old - or was he five now? - grinned up at him from where he stood next to the bed. It was that same  _ I am up to so much shit _ grin that his mother had given Cullen every day she made an appearance in the Gallows.

Suspecting a prank, he looked around his upper floor for Hawke herself but she was nowhere to be found. Frowning, he looked down at the boy and asked, "How exactly did you get up here?”

Rolling his eyes, the boy replied, "'Adder. Was big but not scary. Not la-like where Mama hid us." Mathis wrinkled his nose in disgust as he lifted both arms high and spread his fingers wide. "High, high, high, up tree one time. Was scared but Mama pah-rom-ised t’keep me safe.”

_ Maker _ . He'd always been under the impression that Hawke had found somewhere safe to hide and raise her son for the whole time. She had periodically popped up near Kirkwall in the past, usually visiting long enough for Carver to make it out to meet her before she was off again. Once he'd had to go to the meeting himself when her brother was ill and she had stayed long enough to hear he was fine before bolting with Mathis like a frightened deer. He hadn't contemplated the possibility that she had just kept moving when she needed to. Knowing what little he did of the siblings childhood, he knew they had similar instances while growing up (such was the peril of a mage parent and two magical children) but he also knew parents often wanted better for their children than what they'd had. He was sorry Hawke hadn't been able to give that to her son.

Cullen just nodded and said, "I'm sure your mother would keep you safe from anything, Mathis.” Then he asked, "And how did you get inside my tower?”

The boy giggled and held up a familiar looking bit of rolled up leather tied up with a cord. He then opened it up, showing off a few well worn and simplistic variations of a thieves toolkit. Cullen had seen Varric's and Sera's enough times now to recognize one, not to even mention that Meryell had _ at least _ five hidden around Skyhold as well as the one she carried with her.

Part of him wanted to be _ furious _ but Mathis' face was open and earnest as he answered, "Prac-tice,” sounding the word out into separate syllables.

Maker's breath, someone (Varric probably) was turning the boy into a rogue at what seemed far too young an age.

With a sigh, Cullen sat up, tossing off his sheets and letting his bare feet rest on the floor. As he mercifully blessed the fact that his habit was to sleep in pants, he held out a hand for the set. "May I?”

Mathis abruptly clammed up, clutching at the kit, before asking, "Gonna give it back, right?”

"Of course," he assured. There was a tense moment and then the boy tentatively placed the hastily rolled up bundle in his open palm. Cullen flipped it open, the leather soft and supple against his skin, and saw very clearly that this was a kit fitted specifically for a child's hands. Though it looked like the pieces themselves had once been for a larger kit and had been resized. He ran his thumb over an old maker's mark at the bottom of the leather, a mix of olive leaves and a sword, then asked, "Did Varric give this to you?”

"Aun' Isa," mumbled the boy in reply. He scuffed the toes of his small boots against the floorboards before adding, “She says Mama needs a la-Iahk-picker per-mahn-ent-lee.” The boy sounded out the Iast two words with careful care, as if he had practiced them a great deal.

_ Of course _ it was Isabela.

Cullen hadn't encountered the pirate often - and thankfully never without Hawke around to run interference between him and her grabby hands that he'd been well warned about by Carver - but he knew enough about her that he wasn't surprised.

"And what does your mother say about that?”

The boy shrugged but Cullen knew that type of shrug. He remembered getting in trouble as a boy with both of his parents and that shrug was for when you didn't want to give away something. Which probably meant that Hawke was unaware of her son's activities.

He wasn't the boy's father or any sort of figure with authority over him except the general label of _ adult _ yet he couldn't let him continue his little secret. Not when the boy had broken into his tower. Responsibly using his new skills would be a lesson that Isabela had likely not taught him. Given what he knew of her, she'd probably actually  _ encouraged _ breaking and entering.

Cullen held out the little kit and when Mathis’ smaller fingers touched it he said, "You know I'm going to have to tell your mother.” The _ betrayal _ was immediately evident on the boy's face but he wasn't going to let this lesson pass by unacknowledged. Hawke would probably kill him herself if he did and she found out. "Practice or not, Mathis, you broke into my tower. Was I in danger?”

"No," replied the boy meekly. He tugged lightly at the kit but Cullen kept his grip firm on the other end.

Leaning forward he continued, "Was someone else in danger that needed my aid?”

"No.”

Cullen ducked his head low so he could see the boy's downcast eyes and asked, "Then why did you, Mathis?” When the boy just shrugged in reply and remained silent, he sighed. "We're going straight to your mother then.”

_ That _ made the boy whip his head up and his whole bearing went panicked, causing him to tug wildly at the kit. When he realized that wasn't working, Mathis released it and made a bolt for the top of the ladder...but Cullen had been waiting for the first frightened move. He'd trained enough wet-behind-the-ears recruits to recognize the signs of a panicked bolt and he was ready.

Before the boy even got a full step away, Cullen had gotten to his feet and swept him up with one arm. Mathis started squirming the instant his feet were off the ground and let out a yelp that made him think he'd somehow hurt the boy. Instead of attempting to keep a hold of him, he turned and tossed the boy onto his bed. Mathis bounced once with a second yelp before he scrambled up to try and bolt again. Cullen stretched out his arm before he could reach the edge and shoved him back and down with just enough force that he flopped back down onto the mattress.

"Enough," he sternly intoned with just a touch of the voice he used on the training field.

Mathis blinked up at him, blue eyes bright and glimmering in a familiar fashion…

_ Oh no. Those are tears. _

Cullen stared blankly at the boy for a moment before the stern words of ten years previous darted through his head.

_ Be firm but kind, Ser Cullen, and the children will listen to you. _ Even though he had never seen her again after leaving Kinloch, Enchanter Wynne's voice was still firmly in his memory.  _ You will always get more with kindness mixed with a firm resolve over a rough hand and rougher words. _

_ A-and what about the older mages, Enchanter? _ he recalled asking. Wynne had just smiled in that motherly way she'd had and replied,  _ That is advice for another day. I believe your charges are due at their next lesson. _

He had always remembered to speak kindly to the children after that, even at his worst. Though his reasoning then was more that kindness made them trust him, which also made them less aware of where he and his sword were. It made them easier to _ kill _ if it came to such and he was horrified that he had ever been fine with that situation. He would still wield his blade in the face of a threat if need be but Cullen would no longer strike first and ask questions later like he once would.

Moving forward, he sat down slowly on the edge of the bed before soothingly saying, "Come on now. Look at me, Mathis. Look at me.” After a moment or two the boy glanced up as he sniffled and Cullen smiled gently. "There you are. Now, what are all of these tears about?”

"Doan wa-wanna get i-in trouble," answered the boy, his voice wavering wildly as he hiccuped around unshed tears.

Sighing, Cullen thought over all of the things he could say. He _ could _ point out that that would have been the thought to have _ before _ breaking into the tower but he would leave that to Hawke. No, he would do something different instead.

"You know, no one wants to get into trouble," he began.

Mathis sniffed and asked, "Not even g-grownups?”

"Not even them," Cullen answered sagely. He then held up a single finger in front of the boy's face and continued, "But do you know that it's much braver to admit that you did something wrong rather than hiding it?”

"M-Mama says I shou'd.”

Nodding, he said, "Your mother is very right.” Cullen watched the boy as Mathis nervously chewed on his lower lip for a long moment.

Then Mathis looked up at him and asked, "Why brave though?”

"Because..." Abruptly he trailed off and sighed. Then Cullen leaned forward and whispered, as if he was sharing a secret, "Because sometimes we're scared and it's very brave to do a thing when you're scared.”

" _ Grownups _ get scared?" breathed the boy in obvious awe. Then he wiped his sleeve across his face and asked, " _ You _ been scared, Cu'en?”

"I have and I still am sometimes," replied Cullen honestly. "But there is a difference in _ being _ scared and letting it _ control _ you. You mustn't let fear control what you do.”

Mathis frowned before asking in a whisper, "Why?”

A thousand or more things done wrong flashed through his head: things that he had missed or, far worse, _ ignored _ entirely because of reasoning that sounded terrible now. Things that he could _ never _ make right. His own fears had driven him to those things but doing them had still ultimately been his _ choice. _ And he had to live with that.

"Because fear can make you do things that you wouldn't do at any other time. It..." Cullen trailed off for a moment then finished, "Fear can make you hurt people even when you don't really want to.”

"Hurtin' people is bad," the boy noted firmly.

"It is.”

There was silence from the boy for a long moment but Cullen could tell he was thinking from the intense expression on his young face. At least he'd stopped the tears before they had started. He didn't think that he would have survived Hawke's wrath if he had actually made her child cry.

Mathis looked up at him then and said softly, "I sorry I prac-ticed on your la-ock, Cu'en.”

He nodded approvingly at the apology before he asked, "And?”

"It rude to bah-reak in. I sorry.”

Cullen smiled and said warmly, "Apology accepted, Mathis." He then turned a little more stern as he added, "Now what do we need to do now?”

The boy went pale but still meekly replied, "Find Mama.”

"And?”

"Say what's I did. 'Cause it brave." Mathis’ face then screwed up into a pout before he whispered, "Come with me?”

Chuckling, Cullen answered, "Of course." He rose from the bed then and readied himself for the day, throwing his pants on over those he'd slept in because he wasn't changing in front of the boy. That and he feared Mathis bolting if he sent him downstairs on his own. Though the boy hadn't moved once to bolt now, only scooting forward to the edge of the bed to watch with the same fascination all youths seemed to have with armor.

After he'd buckled his sword in place on his belt, Cullen made a vague shooing gesture with one hand as he said, "Come on then, lad.” When Mathis hesitated, he tacked on, "It's always worse to wait. I remember the times I got in trouble with my Ma were always worse when my brother and I put it off.”

The boy opened his mouth in a great gaping ’o’ of surprise as he pushed himself off the edge of the bed. " _ You _ ?" he said with a sort of awe that made Cullen chuckle.

"I  _ was _ a boy your age once.”

They made their way down the ladder, Cullen going first and Mathis following after. Once they were both on the floor, he asked, "Which door was it?” He had a guess given the fact that Hawke's room was one inside the main keep but wanted the boy to tell him.

When Mathis pointed at the middle door that guess was confirmed.

Nodding, he moved to the door and opened it in time to greet Jim coming across with what was probably the morning missives. Which meant it was earlier than he'd thought it was, since he typically had the missives on his desk when he woke up.

Jim stared for several breaths, mouth open and his eyes darting between him and the boy nervously standing next to him, before he uttered a very confused sounding, "Commander?”

Shaking his head, Cullen held up a hand to forestall the start to any questions. "Just keep to your morning routine, Jim. Don't worry about what I'm doing or what the boy is doing here this early. Got that?”

"O-of course, Commander," Jim stammered out. He looked down at Mathis again before he gestured with the sheaf of papers at the office behind them. "I'll just leave these where I usually do.”

"That's fine, Jim," stated Cullen as he reached down to gently touch Mathis’ shoulder and steer him forward out of the doorway. Jim sidled past them along the walkway into the office, then Cullen paused to look at the lock on his door. It showed obvious scratches from an inexperienced lockpicker attempting to get it open and he frowned down at Mathis. When the boy just shrugged helplessly, clutching his little kit to his chest, he sighed.

"You can talk to your mother about getting actual practice locks," he muttered. "Come on now.”

They made their way through Solas' part of the rotunda with no signs of the elf's presence or anything from Dorian's usual spot from directly above in the library. Leliana was no doubt already in the rookery but it was a given that she would know what was going in Skyhold. Meryell wasn't joking about the fact that the walls of the keep had ears when the Nightingale was in residence.

Staff were just beginning to move around in the main hall when they entered and they only stared a little as he passed by with his young companion. They were used to seeing him so early in the morning since he was typically up to look over his missives before the first round of training. Children, on the other hand, usually weren't up this early and about.

They made their way slowly down into the lower levels of the keep, heading down to the floor just below the one that held Josephine's baths. It was one of the few that boasted rooms with more than one section and Hawke had been gifted one because of her son. Cullen slowed to Mathis’ pace as the boy began dragging his feet along the hallway and idly asked, "Losing your nerve?”

"No!" exclaimed the boy, his head snapping up. Then he wilted and mumbled, "M'scared.”

"It's okay to be scared," soothed Cullen. "Even the bravest people are scared sometimes.”

There was silence then Mathis said, "And brave is good?”

"Especially when you're scared.”

The boy frowned, his lower lip trembling slightly, then he mumbled, "'Kay," before he walked a little faster towards Hawke's door. Cullen watched him hesitate as he touched the wood then Mathis pushed it open and called out, "Mama?”

There was a sudden crash from inside right before a pair of hands _ jerked _ the boy into the room and Cullen lunged after him, just barely missing the back of his shirt. He grabbed the doorframe as he shoved the door the rest of the way open but all he saw inside was a terrified, half-armored Hawke on her knees in front of Mathis. She checked him over frantically before she seemed content that he was unharmed and gave him a little shake then dragged him into her arms.

"Don't you  _ ever _ scare me like again," she breathed, her voice trembling in a way Cullen had only ever heard once before. Beneath Kirkwall in a bloodmage's den of horrors as she stared at what her mother had become.

Hawke leaned back then, her hands brushing over Mathis' face before she finally realized he was there. "Cullen?" she queried, frown crossing her face. "What are you doing here?”

He relaxed his grip on the doorframe as he replied, "I believe that is Mathis’ story to tell.”

She blinked then looked down at her son in confusion, sitting back on her heels and dropping her hands to rest them on her thighs. "What did you do?" she asked, her expression shifting into a serious frown. When he didn't reply, Hawke pressed sternly, " _ Mathis _ . Answer me.”

The boy shuffled uneasily without replying for a moment before he glanced back at Cullen with a pleading look. He started to give the boy a look in return that encouraged him but then Hawke touched her son's face, turning him back to face her.

For a moment there was a long silence before Mathis sniffed and held out the little thieves kit. Hawke blinked and reached out to take it, untying it and flipping it open. Immediately she closed her eyes and hissed under her breath, "Maker damn it, Isabela. I fucking _ told you _ not to do this. Shit.”

Ah. Well.

She then looked up at him with a weary sigh and apologized, "I'm sorry, Cullen. How exactly did you get dragged into this?”

He pointed at the boy, remaining silent, and waited as he shuffled nervously. Then Mathis mumbled, "I prac-ticed on Cu'en's door.”

"You mean you _broke_ into Cullen's tower.”

Mathis sniffed again, swiping his hand across his nose, before he nodded. Hawke snarled a curse in a language Cullen didn't know before she asked, "Why?”

When the boy just kept scrubbing at his face, obviously trying not to break down into tears, Cullen took pity on him. "Apparently," he noted, "she was of the opinion that you needed a permanent lockpicker with you. Hence the practice.”

"Oh, I know Isa's opinion of my lockpicking skills very well. Never shuts up about how useless at it I am," grumbled Hawke. She flipped the leather back over the kit and tied it back shut before adding, "She actually was trying to convince me to let her teach him almost a year ago when we last saw her. I told her I absolutely did not want him learning it this young - if at  _ all _ \- but I should have known fucking better than to believe Isa would leave well enough alone.”

"I sorry, Mama," Mathis suddenly sobbed, obviously no longer able to hold back the tears he'd been fighting. "Aun’ Isa said it was good.”

Hawke pulled her son down into her lap then, wrapping her arms tightly around him and resting her cheek against his hair. "I'm not all angry at you, sweetie. You _ are _ in trouble but I'm more angry at Aunt Isa for not respecting what I wanted. And I didn't tell you I didn't want you learning because I didn't even want you to even know about it.” She then sighed and added softly, "We'll deal with this now. It's okay. We're okay. Okay?”

"M'kay," mumbled the boy, leaning heavily back against his mother. He then sniffed and said, "I sorry, Cu'en.”

"Don't do it again," he commented sternly. "Anything other than that, I leave up to your mother.” When he caught Hawke's silently mouthed _ thank you _ , he knew letting her decide all punishment had been the right choice.

"Which we're going to discuss along with when it is okay to pick locks," she stated. Hawke then patted Mathis on the leg before she added, "Go to your room. I need to talk to Cullen for a minute.”

The boy squirmed uncomfortably in Hawke's arms but mumbled a faint  _ m'kay _ when she pushed him up off her lap. Mathis looked back over his shoulder worriedly as he moved deeper into the room and it took Cullen a long moment to realize the boy thought _ he _ was also in trouble with his mother. He smiled reassuringly and gave a vague shooing motion to indicate he go on, which seemed to soothe the boy as he smiled briefly before he darted away. When he turned his attention back to Hawke, who was now standing, she was giving him a look that was half amusement and half surprise.

"What?" he asked.

She laughed softly and replied, "I just never expected you to be the type for children.”

Cullen just sighed and didn't resist the urge to rub the back of his neck as he half-grumbled, "One mabari shouldn't talk about the same kaddis on another." The comment made Hawke laugh a little louder, nodding her head in agreement.

"Maker," the woman said with a brief shake of her head, "I haven't heard a saying about mabari in a decade." She then made a vague gesture with one hand before saying, "I'm sorry you got dragged into this. I thought I'd taught him better.”

Now _ that _ made Cullen snort a laugh. "Hawke," he intoned matter-of-factly, "not even his mother's sternest warning can keep a curious boy from getting himself into trouble.”

"Is that experience I hear?”

"I _ was _ a boy once, as I told yours earlier.”

She laughed at that before becoming serious, saying, "I'm sorry that happened. I know you're very private and I...shit, I really thought he knew better.”

"Hawke," Cullen spoke somewhat sternly, like he was talking to a stubborn recruit. "I'm not angry. Maybe a little annoyed at the state of the lock on my door but not angry. The boy has his heart in the right place, he just steered it in the wrong direction. You can't blame a child his age for the bad form of an adult.”

When she just _ stared _ at him, he asked, "What?”

Shaking her head, the woman replied, "I'm just...Maker's cock, Cullen, you used to be a right _ dick _ . And nowadays I'm really not sure what to make of you most of the time.”

He huffed a brief laugh after grimacing at the reminder of who he'd been during most of the time that she had known him in Kirkwall. "I would like to think I'm more who I was before the Blight," he said softly as he rubbed at his neck again. "I know I never will be entirely, that my distrust of magic may never go away, but I'm trying. You know the person I was.”

"I do.”

"I never want to be that blind again," Cullen finished firmly.

Hawke just looked at him for a long moment before saying softly, “The fact that you can stand in front of a mage like me and not be afraid says a lot.”

That made him chuckle and shake his head before saying, "You've always proved yourself to be responsible, Hawke.”

She laughed at that. "You always knew I was a mage, didn't you?”

"Not at first but I figured it out not long after. I  _ suspected _ you were at first though.”

"Yet you never…”

"Tried to bring you in?" finished Cullen, feeling like this conversation was about to go places he didn't particularly want to go.

Nodding, Hawke stated, "I've never been able to figure out why. Isa always suspected you had a crush on me.'’

Shaking his head, he replied, "I respect you for too much for that, Hawke. Not to mention you're more than slightly terrifying.” Then Cullen paused briefly before saying, “I paid attention to what you did in the city after we met that first time. Mostly to confirm you actually were the mage amongst your little group but I became aware over that time of all you did. I spoke to those you helped both in armor so they knew who I was and out of armor to try and get their real opinions.” He looked at her for a long moment before he continued on. “The impression I got of you was not of an untrained mage, nor one who sought power or purely to do harm. It was…”

Now he paused for a longer moment, which made Hawke softly ask, "It was what, Cullen?”

He looked directly at her as he answered. "I saw someone who had lost things and was trying to recover. Who had been through something terrible and come out the other side still alive...even though she didn't know how." Typically he wouldn't have exposed this much of himself to someone but he actually _ wanted _ Hawke to understand why.

"You," she began then stopped, shaking her head. After a second or two of silence, Hawke said softly, “You saw  _ yourself _ in me.”

Cullen shrugged, feeling himself flush along the back of his neck and this time did resist putting his hand there. "I may not have been entirely aware of it at the time - or really up until recently if I'm absolutely honest - but...yes, I did. And I...Maker, Hawke, I couldn't be responsible for breaking you.”

"But you could take other mages in.”

_ That _ made him flinch but he nodded. He would not deny what he had done. Not anymore. And if he had to have this conversation with any mage, he was almost glad that it was Hawke before any other.

She, at the least, had no fear of him.

"What was the difference?" asked Hawke, suddenly very serious. "Where did you draw the line between _ good mage _ and _ murderous magical asshole _ ?” There was only _ one _ answer to that question and while that answer was right in the context of the query itself, it was terrible in and of itself.

He wanted to look away when he said it so he wouldn't have to see her response but he _ needed _ to see it. He _ had _ to look a mage in the eye for this. So Cullen looked squarely at Hawke and replied softly, "Because you became a _ person _ while I was looking into you and not just a mage. They didn't.”

He remembered, oh Maker did he remember, telling her once that _ mages aren't people like you and me. _

There was a long silence in response to that and he wasn't entirely sure what Hawke was thinking. She was eerily silent, her face an utter blank, and the only movement was her hands opening and then closing back into fists several times.  _ Maker _ , he thought, _ she must think the worst of me now. And well she should. The man I was in Kirkwall, that I  _ **_let_ ** _ myself be, he  _ **_should_ ** _ be hated. _

Finally she opened her mouth and asked in a bare whisper, "And now?”

Cullen let out a breath - not fully relieved but partly - and answered with a simple, "No.” He then tacked on immediately after that, "I was  _ wrong _ , Hawke. I...I let my own fears of magic and all that it could do take me down a path that I _ should _ have repelled from. Having magic does not make you or any other mage less of a person than someone like me. If anything, being a mage probably makes you  _ stronger _ .”

"Because of the demons, I'm guessing," Hawke mused softly. When he nodded, she made a clicking sound with her tongue before asking, "And my boy? What if he shows magic while we're here?”

"This  _ isn't _ a Circle," he replied firmly, trying hard to keep sudden anger out of his voice that she would even _ ask that _ , "and I am  _ not _ a templar."

"You trust me to teach him?"

Cullen sighed before gruffly stating, "Mathis is _ your son _ , not his father's. And if I think I could trust you at my back, Hawke, I think I can trust you to train your own child in how to summon a proper fireball."

She stared at him for a long moment with obvious shock on her face before she said, '' _ You _ would trust _ me _ at your back?” He knew all of the silent additions to that question:  _ you would trust a mage at your back, a  _ **_templar_ ** _ would trust a  _ **_mage_ ** _ to be behind his shield and not before it? _

"Hawke," Cullen intoned seriously, "I defied the orders of my Knight-Commander for you. Because  _ she _ was in the wrong.”

"That doesn't equal  _ trust _ , Cullen.”

Shrugging slightly, he replied, "Bonds forged on a battlefield are some of the strongest one can create. Rylen is fond of telling our new recruits that once you've shed and spilled blood with someone else, you've got a bond that most folks would be hard pressed to break.”

"So we have a bond," she commented with a faintly amused smile.

Shaking his head, Cullen replied, "You were always a constant, Hawke. Sometimes a constant pain in my side but more often just a consistent focus." He laughed then as he went on. "A thousand things could be wrong in the Gallows but the world was still right so long as you were around to cause me headaches.”

Hawke just grinned at him as she commented, "I bet I caused you a fucking lot of those.”

"You have no idea how right a descriptor that is.”

His comment made the woman chuckle before her expression became serious again. And Cullen noticed that her posture became more defensive; the subtle, shrinking into nothing defensive that mages in the Circle - especially Kirkwall - took on to seem small. He had witnessed it too many times back then and had utterly ignored the implications the pose brought to those encounters.

Never again.

"Hawke?" he asked gently, concerned at this change.

For a moment only silence greeted him, then she spoke in a soft voice. "Did you mean that?" Hawke asked.

Confused, Cullen frowned before replying, "Mean what?”

Blue eyes lifted to meet his in a stare that was part curiosity and part _ fear _ .

"That Mathis isn't his father's son.”

He blinked at the question briefly before replying with a, "Yes?" that was more than a little confused. Suddenly concerned by the question, Cullen asked, "What does his father have to do with anything?”

Suddenly Hawke's went pinched with exasperation before hissing, "There are some people who have a problem with the blood he carries. I'm just...I don't want it to be an issue amongst those of us that survived the shit hole that Kirkwall was.”

_ Oh. _

"Treva," Cullen began softly and her head whipped up so quickly he swore he heard her neck snap. He had never used her first name before and likely wouldn't after this but  _ this _ required the use. If only to guarantee he had her attention. "A family is far more than the bonds of flesh and blood. Your group as well as Meryell and Folke are proof enough of that. Mathis may have both from Anders but he will always be _ your _ son to me.”

He then looked away from her, thinking of that day when an explosion had shaken Kirkwall down and all of the days after as he had fought to keep the broken city upright. The stink of the streets after still haunted his nightmares alongside the wide open eyes of the dead...but that was not Mathis’ burden.  _ That _ rested on the shoulders of a dead mage - of a dead  _ man _ \- and as much disgust he held for the action, Cullen would not allow himself to blame the boy.

"I won't blame a boy who wasn't even born yet for the sins of a father he never even knew," he finished in a whisper.

What _ else _ could he do but that? If he ever had children of his own, they could face similar ire from those who had been victims of his actions or inaction. That was _ his _ burden to bear, not theirs.

It suddenly hit like a thunderclap that children was a thing he actually  _ could _ consider. After they defeated Corypheus it was one more open door...if Meryell wanted to take it with him.

_ Later _ , he scolded himself.  _ You aren't far enough ahead to be thinking about that. _

Corypheus first, then he and Meryell could figure things out between them. Priorities.

Cullen turned his attention back to Hawke then and was startled to find the woman crumpled on ground, one arm wrapped around her as the other shakily pressed her fingers against her lips. As soon as he stepped in close and dropped to one knee next to her, he also noticed that she was crying silently. Having only ever witnessed Hawke cry the once, he wasn't certain of what to do for a moment. Hawke _ crying _ was as foreign a concept to him as Varric not stretching the truth about something or Dorian not trying to cheat at chess.

“Hawke, are you," he began, pausing as she closed her eyes, before finishing, "are you alright?”

"Fine," she shakily replied, her voice slightly muffled by her fingers. Then she breathed, " _Thank_ _you_.”

Blinking in confusion, Cullen asked, "For  _ what _ ?”

"For not hating him.”

For a moment he was stunned that she thought him the sort to hate a child for something not under his control but then...he wondered. Was the fear born out of nothingness or their loose familiarity? Or was this coming from somewhere else?

Had one of her little group reacted badly to her choice? He knew Carver hadn't approved but that was more because she never told him that she was even with child until the day they met up and the signs were glaringly obvious. Cullen had silently sat through his angry ravings that night on the Amell stubbornness, Anders being a colossal piece of shit, and his being torn between leaving to help her and her wanting him to stay. As much as they butted heads, Carver loved his sister fiercely and he was absolutely _ smitten _ with his nephew.

Varric was Hawke's best friend and he obviously doted on the boy. Isabela was still involved with them (blatantly so since she was the cause of their current situation) so it wasn't likely to be her. Who else had been involved with Hawke?

Aveline had been frosty to him during their working together in Kirkwall's recovery up until he'd thrown himself in front of a blade for one of her guardsmen in a joint action of the Order and the Guard. She had slowly warmed up after that and had been one of the only people besides Rylen who told him to get out of the city before trying to save it killed him. If she could warm up to _ him _ , he didn't see her being angry at Hawke over a child. So not likely Aveline.

The little elven woman who had followed Hawke - another mage he had ignored, though when he had learned she was a _ blood mage _ from Carver he'd nearly had a  _ fit _ \- didn't seem likely either. Everything Varric said about her made her sound like a naive young woman without much of a clue to human society and Carver had always defended her (with a vigor that made Cullen suspect something of a crush).

The then exiled last Prince of Starkhaven could be likely given he'd been a brother at the Chantry in Kirkwall before seeking vengeance for his family...but Cullen doubted it. He remembered him standing at Hawke's back in the confrontation with Meredith, his blue eyes hard and his bow at the ready. By all he assumed and knew, the Prince would support her.

Which left the other elf. The one with the lyrium etched into his very skin. Cullen remembered being all too aware of where the elven warrior was during the fight against Meredith, the lyrium turning him into a burning brand of a presence at the back of Cullen's skull. Perhaps him? It seemed the only option left.

Cautiously he reached out and rested a hand on Hawke's knee. She jumped a little at the contact, jerking her head up and away from her fingers. As her eyes - wide, _ frightened _ , and the same bright blue of her son and brother - met his, he smiled gently.

"I have hated mages out of fear for many things, Hawke, but never the children. Feared, yes. Hated?” He paused and shook his head before finishing, "Even my worst self never hated the children for something they couldn't control.”

Hawke choked on a noise that might have been a sob and one of her hands abruptly clutched at his. She sniffed before gasping, "I didn't…” Her voice trailed off then she laughed, shaking her head. "I didn't think I'd be so relieved to hear you say that. Look at me, sobbing on the floor because of the former templar. Some fearsome fucking mage I am, yeah?”

Cullen shook his head and said, "Not a mage. A  _ mother _ scared for her child.” She just  _ blinked _ at him, her mouth slightly open in shock, and he chuckled. "Still a dick?" he asked uncertainly, referring back to her earlier comment.

"Far from," Hawke replied softly. Then she smiled - bright and _ free _ and Maker had he ever truly feared a mage being so unbound as to smile like  _ that _ \- before she squeezed his hand. "I think," she went on, "that I see the templar you would have been if someone hadn't failed you.”

He jerked back at that, hissing, "Hawke?!”

"The best templar is wise," she went on. "Wise enough to know when to push and pull as well as when to let go. It is not lyrium that makes a templar but the person themself, man or woman. My father told me that when he told me about templars when I was little.”

Staring at her for a moment, Cullen breathed, "I am not a templar.” Even if he  _ did _ know better now what should be done and how mages should be treated, he feared that power in his hands far too much. Feared _ himself _ too much in that position, that old habits and fears might overrule him. The Inquisition army was different enough from commanding templars that he could make the disconnect. That was why he, Meryell, and Cassandra had made the decision together to elevate Ser Barris to lead their templar contingent.

Not even to mention that he was no longer of the opinion that mages _ had _ to be caged.

Hawke just nodded and smiled, saying, "I know. But that doesn't change my seeing who he would have been without whatever you went through during the Blight.”

"I…”

For a moment he could imagine it himself. A templar who wouldn't have let fear rule his actions for so long, who would have  _ stood up _ and confronted Meredith's madness far sooner. A life lived and actions taken that he would be proud of, not ashamed. He froze then, frowning, before saying softly and mostly to himself, "I wouldn't have requested the transfer to Kirkwall after Greenfell. Wouldn't have  _ been _ at Greenfell at all. But that…”

He had never thought of how exactly his life might have been different. It had been too painful to consider before. Yet...if it _ had _ been different...

That would mean missing being mildly amused by Hawke's sheer _ ballsiness _ to walk into the Gallows. The trial of helping mold Carver's stubborn nature into one of the best templar's he had trained. Varric's good natured needling. His friendship with Cassandra. Chess with Dorian.

Gil's motherly brand of worrying. Chats with Arnald on strategy. The Fangs’ subtle and not so subtle methods of checking up on him.

And... _ Meryell _ .

If... if he hadn't lost everything at Kinloch, he wouldn't have seen Greenfell. Without being forced to go there, life wouldn't have led him into the horrors of Kirkwall. Yet...without _ Kirkwall _ he likely wouldn't be with the Inquisition. He would have likely never met the woman who made his heart beat too fast and loved him despite all of the wrongs he'd done.

He would not  _ be _ the man he was today without Kinloch, Greenfell, and Kirkwall.

If he had remained a templar at Kinloch...would he still be free?

Or would he have followed orders and become red?

Bile filled his throat at the thought of one of his more recent nightmares being real and Cullen violently shook his head. " _ No _ ," he intoned firmly.

"No?" repeated Hawke in confusion. She then let out a strangled noise and said, "Cullen, you're _ shaking _ .”

"I…” he began before stopping, closing his eyes and bowing his head for a moment to regain his bearings.  _ Breathe _ , he said to himself although, for some reason, the 'voice' in his head sounded exactly like Folke. Then Cullen opened his eyes to look at her and softly said, "I'm alright, Hawke.”

The woman snorted in disbelief at that before commenting, "And I'm the Queen of Ferelden.”

He gave a little huff of a laugh that didn't have much effort behind it before saying, “I just…” Then he trailed off and shook his head slightly before saying a little breathlessly, "I just realized that if my life had turned out differently, I might not be here. And where I possibly would be isn't anywhere I would  _ want _ to be. Which means…”

Cullen paused to lick suddenly dry lips before finishing in a whisper, "Which means the most terrible things in my life have brought me here.”

Hawke's mouth opened in a little 'o’ of surprise before she said softly, "Meaning to wish for anything else could mean  _ not _ being here. And the other options…”

"Dead," he stated flatly. "Or...red.”

She paled and breathed, "You don't know that those are the only choices, Cullen.”

"I know _ myself _ , Hawke. I would have followed the order to go to Therinfal if I had never learned to doubt the Order. I would have doomed myself and my men.” He lifted a shaking hand to run it over his face, the rough leather of his glove a welcome distraction for at least a moment. "Maker's breath.”

He had never thought to be happy about the course of his life, not with the horrors of Kinloch and the struggle that was keeping his sanity in Kirkwall. Now...now he might have to be a little thankful.

Perhaps the Maker did truly work in mysterious ways.

There was an awkward silence for a moment before Hawke said, “It may be shitty of me to say this but...if that's how the Maker works, then I'm glad your shit show of a life got you here.”

It was so _ Hawke _ that Cullen barked a laugh as he nodded.

"Me too, Hawke, me too.”


	58. “Soon as we get back to Path of Flame, I’m sending a raven back to Skyhold, and we’re going after those shitbags and the Red Templars with all the force we’ve got.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meryell makes plans for finishing up what they can in the Exalted Plans and begins the process of working on what remains to clear the region...but her plans are rudely interrupted by the Anchor. Thankfully Folke is there. Later, she meets with Keeper Hawen as his clan is packing up to leave the Plains and receives an unexpected gift of information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends, I am back!
> 
> I'm going to make an attempt to get back onto a schedule with this fic and start trying to release one every month. Hopefully I'll be able to get back into the swing of things and maybe bring that down some. Fingers crossed for me!
> 
> Obviously I have been working on stuff in my absence from this fic (as can be seen from my addition to my AC fic or my WoW fics if any of you are stalking my profile) its just that this current place in the story is a timeline muddle and I'm still sorting out the logistics of it. Eventually I'm gonna get it back on track and slot everyone back together.
> 
> Also, I've added the _currently known_ timeline over on my personal wordpress where I crosspost my fics. You can find it [here](http://stories.terion.net/fanfiction/the-inquisitions-mercenaries/sordid-calendar/). This includes all current chapters of this story as well as what is currently posted of _Fragments_. As of this chapter, we are in 9:42 Dragon near the end of the month of Firstfall.

Bracing the heels of her hands against the roughshod table that the map of the Exalted Plains was nailed to, Meryell glared down at it as if doing so would make things move faster. She had done so many things since arriving - arrested three idiot mages, aided a Dalish clan enough to perhaps earn an ally, sorted Duke Gaspard's forces, and murdered a shitting lot of Freemen - yet she still wasn't done.

And, most annoyingly, the rest would have to wait until they got stonemasons out to clear what she'd learned was called Ghilan'nain's Grove. Not even to mention that the fighting couldn't be said to have officially come to a halt until she spoke to the Empress’ Commander...who was on the other side of the broken bridge at Pont Agur.

"If it's not one fucking thing it's another,” she grumbled under her breath. The matters of the Inquisition seemed to be following the same trend recently since Cullen's attack and Halamshiral. No, actually, since the  _ beginning _ . First it was the Venatori, then the Red Templars, then the remnants of the Orlesians civil war, and now there were these Freemen of the Dales to add to the mix of people fucking shit up.

Sighing, she sat heavily down in the camp chair and planted her elbows on the table, cupping her hands around her cheeks. She frowned at the map before her then shifted her position to reach out one hand towards the rough clay cup that held the map pins. Driving one into the marking for  _ closed off _ that someone had made on the entrance to Ghilan’nain’s Grove, Meryell muttered, “Stonemasons.”

She then picked up another and stabbed it into the table in the middle of the Enavuris River. “Engineers.” The land on the other side of the river was blank since they couldn’t currently reach it but she still stuck a pin there and murmured, “Orlesians.”

Meryell then sighed and reached for the smaller rolled up map of the Inquisition holdings tucked off to the side of the table and opened it, pinning it to the edge. She then picked up two pins and stuck one each into their current location in the Exalted Plains and another into what was marked as the forward camp in the Emerald Graves.

“Travel time,” she noted to herself before grabbing a third pin. Hesitating a moment, Meryell then placed it on Skyhold and sighed sadly. She stroked her finger along the pin for a moment before resting it against the parchment next to the tiny depiction of the keep.

It had already been two weeks since she had left Cullen behind her in Halamshiral and it was shaping up to be longer still until she was able to make it back home.

She smiled and closed her eyes at that, shaking her head a little. It seemed...silly...thinking of Skyhold as home. Because eventually the Inquisition  _ would _ come to a close. They would disperse and go to new things or back to what their lives had been before (if a little different given the things they had seen).

And what would she do?

Could she really just disappear back into her old life, foist off the mantle of the Inquisitor and vanish back into the Fangs? More importantly, what would  _ Cullen _ want to do? If they survived everything and stayed together, she had no intention of leaving him.

Would he follow her?

Or, if he asked, would she follow him?

Meryell then flinched, jerking her left hand away from the pin as pain lanced across her palm, distracting her from her thoughts. She bared her teeth, grinding them together against the pain, as the Mark opened across her hand to light up the command tent with an eerie green glow. It sparked briefly and she hissed, drawing her hand back to her and pressing her right thumb hard against the base of it.

“Shut up, you fucking worthless whoreson,” she spat at it. “I know we had a shitty day of it but that’s no reason to get cocking pissed at  _ me _ .” They’d closed the last three pesky rifts in the region that they could get to yesterday, which had had to be left to the last due to needing every man they could get on them. Her hand had ached something fierce after the third but it hadn’t been anything near what it had been in the future or even close to what it was right now.

As if in response, it spread open further, causing her to hiss in agony. Tears sprang up in her eyes but she furiously blinked them away.

Her pain was in her voice, however, as she snarled, “What the fuck do you want from me?”

It sparked angrily and then abruptly dissipated, the effects of its little temper tantrum immediately vanishing as if they had never been there. The jagged green gash that had split her palm yet not faded back into the faintly discolored skin of dormancy as if it had never been active at all. To her eye, however, that discolored skin appeared just that little bit wider across her hand than it had been before.

Abruptly she realized how tense her entire body had become since the pain had settled in and slumped onto the table, burying her head in her arms and fighting back the sudden childish sniffle that wanted to come out. Meryell stroked a finger over the discolored skin on her palm and tried to not think of how absolutely  _ terrified _ she honestly was of this thing. The Anchor that she had never asked for, that had bound her to a cause she had never wanted, that had made her a target of a madman and his minions, and that sometimes made her question just how much she wanted to keep her hand.

She hadn’t even shared that last thought with Cullen yet.

Sighing, Meryell sat up and then nearly jumped straight off of the camp chair as she realized Folke was standing there, looking like a rumpled cat rustled out of its warm spot, with his coat wrapped around him and a cup of something steaming in one hand. His gray eyes were alert, however, despite the morning scruff on his cheeks and the disheveled rat’s nest of his dark hair.

As she managed to right herself by gripping tightly to the edge of the table, she stared at him before asking, “How long have you been standing there,  _ baba _ ?”

“Long enough,” he replied sternly. Then he stepped forward and around the table, setting his cup down as he dropped to one knee next to her with his hands out. “Let me see it.”

“It’s fine.”

Folke snapped his fingers right under her nose and snarled, “It’s not  _ fine _ ,  _ ara vherain _ ! I just saw it react to absolutely fucking  _ nothing _ . I saw it  _ hurt you _ .”

Meryell snapped her head around to look down at him with a hard glare and hissed, “Not like I haven’t been hurt before.”

“Don’t be stubborn about this, Poppet.”

“It’s  _ fine _ .”

He spat something harsh and guttural in the Chasind tongue, a clash of mostly consonants and few vowels that she had no translation for because he had never taught her the language (not more than the few curses it had). Then one of his hands came to rest on her knee underneath the table and Meryell frowned down at his suddenly bowed head.

“Let me in, girl,” he breathed, his voice sounding almost pained. “Stop hiding from me.”

Immediately she flinched and turned her head away, a sudden lump in her throat. “Fuck you,” she hissed before thrusting the marked hand in his face. Meryell closed her eyes as she felt his rough fingers closed around her hands and felt the press of magic against the Mark. It reacted briefly and she knew even without looking that it was only glowing faintly inside her skin. There was no pain this time.

Folke pressed his thumbs in on either side of her palm and heard him suck in a breath that sounded vaguely like he’d been punched in a gut.

“Meryell.”

Slowly she turned to look at him, kneeling there next to her with her faintly glowing palm cupped between his hands. He grimaced before asking, “It’s been getting worse, hasn’t it? With every rift?”

After a long moment she nodded, unable to find the words to speak, and he nodded.

“We need to have a talk with Chuckles when we get back to Skyhold,” Folke said as he continued to look at her hand. “He’s the one who kept it under control at first, that’s what you told me.”

“Yes,  _ baba _ , according to what Varric and others have told me.”

He hummed in reply and Meryell frowned before asking, “You think you can get him to actually tell you anything?” Gray eyes darted up to meet hers in response and Folke smiled grimly.

“He’ll tell me  _ something _ . At the least how he calmed it the first time and why it might be acting up again.”

She snorted at that. “How do you know he’ll say anything?”

Folke huffed out a breath before he released her hand and got to his feet. He didn’t straighten up to his full height, however, and remained partly bent over to rest his hands on her shoulders as he stated, “Because I’m not going to be approaching him as some little shit seeking knowledge, I’m going to be going there as a father looking to help and protect his daughter. You don’t get between a father and his daughter.”

"You really think that will convince him?”

"Probably not but I'm pretty sure my fists will if he proves to be stubborn.”

Huffing out a little laugh, Meryell quickly sobered. Bringing her right hand to her left, she stroked her fingers over the inert once again mark as she stared down at it before asking softly, “And if he still won’t?”

Folke dropped back down next to her, closing both hands over hers and gripping them tightly. She lifted her head to look right at him as he swore, “We’ll find a way,  _ ara’vherain _ . Trust me. Nothing will happen to your ha…” Abruptly he trailed off, his mouth open as the last syllable died on his tongue as his eyes abruptly lost their focus.

_ A wyrding _ . One of the rare ones that took his sight for a single breath, showing a fragment of the current future. She could remember one happening before and the only other one she knew of had been in the years before her  _ and _ the company, when Folke had still been a boy with his family and his gift still new. And that one had heralded the death of his older sister, though a nine year-old Folke hadn't known that when he'd seen it.

She was the only one besides his blood family who knew about it and that was only from the accident of catching him in a depressive mood while deep in his cups back when she was seven and ten.

And the one  _ she _ had witnessed two years later had been him seeing the death of his father. This particular variation of the wyrding seemed to be keyed to one main thing: his family and those he considered amongst that immediate circle. And it seemed to only herald pain and death.

Bile rose in her throat and Meryell held her breath, knowing better than to try and shake him out of it. The one she had witnessed had only lasted a moment anyway and he gasped as his eyes refocused.

And she saw  _ fear _ .

“ _ Baba _ ,” she asked, aware her voice was shaking, “what did you see?”

His jaw  _ trembled _ and he bowed his head abruptly...but not before she caught the tears welling up in his eyes.

“ _ Baba _ , you’re fucking scaring me.”

Folke nodded in acknowledgement but didn’t raise his head until he drew in a harsh, shaky breath and even then she could still see the tremble, still see the tears trying to come. He silently moved both hands to fully cover her marked one as he breathed, "I won't let it happen," almost as if to himself more than anything else. Then, more fiercely, "I fucking  _ refuse _ to let it happen.”

Meryell could only think of one reason he would say such while holding her hand. He had just seen a moment where _ she lost it _ . He had seen her lose  _ her hand. _

"How?" she asked, voice trembling.

"I don't know," he replied softly. Shaking his head, Folke went on, "I didn't see the loss. Just a hand and forearm made of wood and metal.”

_ Forearm?! _

_ How much… _

_ Maker's dripping cock, how much of her arm was she going to possibly lose? _

Licking suddenly dry lips, Meryell softly stated, "We need to tell Brewe. And find a good craftsman, one who'd be useful to the Inquisition as well.”

"I won't let it happen," insisted Folke again, his voice adamant even as his body language language continued to relay sorrow.

“ _ Baba _ ,” she said with a firmness in her tone that she didn’t quite feel, “we can’t just not prepare for a fucking just in case scenario. We can’t do this on our own. I...I  _ can’t _ .” Now she trembled and it was in her voice as well as it dropped to a whisper. “I made a promise to Cullen. It was over just one fucking thing but…shit, no secrets between lovers. You’ve always told me that when I asked how you and Evune worked.”

There was silence from her father for a long moment then he asked in a gentle tone, “Your first kill? You hadn’t told him? But you are going to?” When she nodded three times in answer to each question, Folke dipped his head into a firm nod before adding, “Good. I’m glad you listened to me on at least one bloody thing. And you’re right, we’ll need help.”

Nodding, Meryell said, “We’ll have to elaborate on your gift.”

“Curse,” he spat in reply, his tone bitter and angry. The scar on his cheek rippled as he grimaced. “Today we’re going to call it a damned rotten curse. I could have lived without knowing that future.” Then he shrugged and nodded before he spoke again.

“I’ll tell the  _ el’u’verelan _ and the  _ air’amelan _ what we’ll probably need to look for after we break the news. You want the order to be Cullen, then them, then potentially the rest of the circle?”

“Captain too.”

Folke just snorted at that. “That one was a given.”

He then squeezed her hand with his own and asked, “You want me there during them all?”

Meryell felt a sudden lump in her throat at the idea of facing telling everyone this on her own and nodded frantically. “Even with Cullen?” he asked a moment later and she closed her eyes, taking a moment before she replied.

Could she tell this news to her lover without him? Certainly.

Did she want to? No, she wanted...no,  _ no _ , she needed her father next to her. Needed his strength to bolster her own...and to help smother her own fear later on. Only he and Cullen might see the fear consume her.

“ _ Please _ ,” she finally managed to reply, her voice a bare whisper. Then she felt Folke’s hands cupping her cheeks and opened her eyes to look at him, his expression the fiercest that she’d ever seen it in her life.

“I will fight this with everything I have, _ara_ _vherain_ , and you’re going to help me,” he said fervently with all of the gravity of an oath given with blood. “You fucking hear me? You and me, Poppet, against the whole damned world if we have to be.”

Lifting her hands up, Meryell rested them over his as she nodded, tears prickling at her eyes. “I hear,  _ baba _ ,” she breathed. “You and me.”

“Good,” Folke said firmly. Then he rose up and moved one hand to press it against her forehead, his brow furrowing. “Have you even slept since we got back in from the field?”

“A few hours of a nap.”

“That won’t do. Come on.”

She didn’t even try to argue with him as he straightened up fully, snatching up his cup in one hand as the other tangled with hers. Meryell let him draw her out of the command tent into the wee hours of the morning, dawn just beginning to crawl over the hills. Parts of the camp were already stirring - which was already in evidence since Folke had come in with a hot drink against the morning chill - but not a one of them batted an eye as the pair of them moved through.

They slipped into his tent and Meryell caught a glance of a camp table piled high with notes and odd jars as well as random bundles of herbs and plants before she was pitched off of her feet and into the disheveled lot of blankets piled up on his cot. She burrowed into them, breathing deeply in the scent of lyrium and herbs and something else that was  _ home  _ and  _ safety _ , and the tension buried deep in her limbs began to uncoil just a little.

Folke settled down on a camp chair right next to her, setting his cup to the side, and he stroked her hair back from her face. His voice was low and gentle as he asked, “Shall I tell you a story, Poppet?”

Laughing because he hadn’t asked her that in years - not since she’d finally stopped being permanently attached to his hip at every moment - Meryell nodded. She was far too old to be told stories like a child...but the soothing sound of his voice was always a balm. And she’d always had a love of stories thanks to her  _ babae _ .

“What sort of story?” he asked.

Meryell grasped his hand as it made another pass through her hair, squeezing tight for a moment before she brought it to her lips. As she pressed a kiss to his worn knuckles, she breathed, “Something with a happy ending.”

Only his gray eyes broke at the request and she tried to pretend that she only imagined the tremble in his lips as Folke leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. “Only the happiest for you, my lioness,” he whispered.

Then he leaned his elbow on the edge of the cot and began his story in a low voice, deliberately pitching it into the deep rumble that had once soothed the ragged edges of a lost little girl’s soul. And Meryell closed her eyes and let herself believe, if but for a moment, that she might just get that happy ending.

* * *

“ _ Savhalla _ , Keeper Hawen,” greeted Meryell as she and Cassandra walked into the clan’s campsite two days later. Folke and Blackwall had deigned to stay at the boundary with their horses instead of coming into the camp. As soon as she strode in, she noticed that it was in a state of ordered disorder with aravels in clear evidence and halla close at hand. It didn’t take much to realize that they were packing up their camp to leave.

“ _ Savhalla _ ,  _ da’asa’var’lin _ ,” replied the Keeper with a brief nod, not even bothering to turn his head from observing the motions of his clan. “What brings the Inquisition to us today?”

Shrugging vaguely, she answered simply, “Checking in. We’ve cleared the Plains as much as we can until access is available to Ghilan’nain’s Grove and we can build a fucking bridge across some stretch of the Enavuris.” Stepping up to be even with him so he could fully see her out of the corner of his eye, she jerked her chin vaguely towards the clan. “We’re packing up as well to head on. Seems your clan has the same idea.”

“Such is the Dalish way,” he said simply in return. It wasn’t an insult but it still made her want to curl her lip. Mostly in that this was a thing the Dalish did without question.

She’d learned all too well to question the Dalish teachings.

“Off to new grounds?”

The Keeper merely smiled then finally turned to look at her for a moment before he answered. “Perhaps new, perhaps old. It depends upon which of our grounds may be safest during such turbulent times.”

That made Meryell freeze and she asked, “You weren’t thinking about heading to the Emerald Graves, were you?”

“We have grounds there but, no, that is not to be our destination. I sense, however, that it is yours,  _ asa’var’lin _ .”

Nodding, she replied, “There are Red Templar forces there that we intend on routing out. Not to mention these damned Freemen of the Dales.”

“ _ Shemlen _ fools flailing against their own. I wish you a good hunt if it is them you chase. The clan has never met their ire since they rose up but we have seen the destruction they bring to the land even as they shout the differences between them and their warring kin.” She watched as his jaw briefly clenched before he continued, "Liars all. The world might improve without such within it.”

Meryell flicked her eyes back towards Cassandra, who she couldn’t see but knew was standing behind her at her shoulder, and then asked, “Just them or all humans, Keeper?”

Hawen stared at nothing for a moment in silence before he chuckled, turning his head fully to regard her. She then watched his eyes slide over her shoulder to where she knew Cassandra stood and beyond to where he would be able to see her father and Blackwall with their horses.

“Only some,” he replied. “I believe you know the sort I speak of, Inquisitor. You and yours do not fall into such categories.”

“I do know but always good to double check that I don’t have to watch their backs for a murder attempt from our allies.”

The Keeper hummed softly before he said, “We go north towards Nevarra, Inquisitor. After that we travel to the east.”

“To the Free Marches?”

“And the land our kin who walked before us called their home. The land that was once ours and ours alone, to meet where our secrets are still hidden.”

Meryell turned to stare at him for a moment before she breathed, “Cass? Give us a moment?” There was silence in reply then she felt the reassuring thump of the Seeker’s fist against her spine before hearing the older woman walk far enough away to give them some sort of privacy. She then asked, “What are you telling me, Keeper?”

“I am telling you,  _ da’asa’var’lin _ ,” Hawen replied, his voice pitched low, “where we will once again meet with the Suinasvenla. Where we and our cousins will speak of the time that has passed since we last met in the tongue that our kin have largely forgotten. To speak the  _ vi’dirth’vhen’an _ to each other and teach what new words we have discovered of the old.”

Her breath caught in her throat and and words she wanted to say stilled there, captured as easily as a fly in a spider’s web. The Keeper seemed to take her silence in stride and continued on.

“There is an ancient ruin near the banks of the Minanter River,” he went on, “hidden by brush and overgrowth and a natural valley from all those who no longer remember it was ever there. North and a little east of Starkhaven, between two of the Minanter’s small tributaries. We will be there in four months time, on the twenty-fifth day of the  _ shem’len’s _ Drakonis. It will be the first time the Melaithers has met with the Suinasvenla in five years.”

“And I may pass?”

The words were a bare whisper but the Keeper heard them.

He nodded his head and said, “You and one other. I will make the arrangements myself. It may be...easier...if you brought one of the People but…” Hawen paused and then tipped his head slightly to the side. “If there is another you would have with you, it may be allowed.”

Meryell stared at him, heart in her throat, before she managed to breath, “My  _ baba _ .”

“The new  _ shem’len _ who follows you now in place of the  _ shielan _ who is no longer by your side?”

Frowning at the word, she nodded and replied, “He knows the tongue. I taught him it myself. And we have former Dalish among our company, so we both have some knowledge of what to expect among other clans. You’ll get no shit from either of us.” Then she cocked her head to the side and asked, “Why  _ wanderer _ ? It’s not the first word that’d come to mind for Chuckles.”

If Hawen was surprised, shocked, or appalled by her sharing the tongue his clan and her father’s had so long protected, he didn’t show it. Instead he took in the information with a nod before saying, “Our clans have little quarrel with the  _ shem’len _ so long as they do not quarrel with us. And if he is respectful there will be no issue.” Then he paused and his tone became darker as he added, “You will be under the banner of my clan,  _ da’asa’var’lin _ , even if you are Suinasvenla in blood. A wrong word or deed will place a burden upon us that we can little afford with our cousins.”

“We’ll keep the peace, Keeper. You can bloody count on it.”

“Good. As to the name...is he not so?”

Sighing, Meryell shrugged. “I suppose?” she answered. “He’s not Dalish.”

“Yet also not one of our city kin like yourself. He is...different.”

“Very,” was all she was willing to reply because Chuckles certainly was  _ different _ . When she had the very rare occasion to sit down to think long and hard about it, he made no sense. A mage as well trained as he was, who  _ knew _ the things he did? That didn’t just come out of being a backwoods apostate who managed to avoid the templars all his life. It surely didn’t come from just wandering in the Fade like he apparently did. She didn’t believe that shit nowadays for one second.

But getting Chuckles to talk was like pulling teeth from a dragon’s jaw.

Hawen nodded slightly then stated, “Then we shall see you in four months with your...father.  _ Dar’eth shiral, da’asa’var’lin _ . May your paths be clear wherever you tread.”

She blinked then Meryell inclined her head slightly, replying, “ _ Dar’eth shiral _ , Keeper.” Other than the typical Elven farewells in the tongue, she didn’t know anything like he had said. It hadn’t been a part of what  _ babae _ had taught her when she was small and she’d never bothered to learn any from Evune or Pod. So she shrugged and gave him the least rude of the Fangs ones. “Safe roads, good booze, and a job well done.”

When he gave her a confused look, one eyebrow slightly arched, Meryell just smiled and shrugged one shoulder.

“Sorry, Keeper, I don’t know any Dalish farewells, so you’ve gotta make do with one from my company.”

Hawen’s eyebrow just went a little higher in return then he chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “I wonder,” he mused, “what you would have been like amongst us, Inquisitor. Alas that such was not to be.”

“Alas,” she echoed, even though her heart rebelled at the thought.  _ She _ would have never been born to a clan because her mother there would not have been the woman she remembers, the one with rough hands, a gentle voice, and the Maker’s Chant on her lips. The girl who would have been raised there would have never been  _ her _ .

That Meryell or whatever her name might have been would never be her father’s  _ pup _ .

He nodded at her then before he moved away, as one of the other approached calling his name. She watched him go, watched them speak for a moment before she let her eyes roll across the steadily collapsing camp, across the aravels and the faces with their  _ vallaslin _ .

This was not her world.

It never could be.

And that...that was as it should be.

Turning away with a sad smile, Meryell strode back over to where her father and Blackwall stood, Cassandra falling into place beside her in silence. As they approached, Folke held out his hand for hers and asked, “All’s well, Poppet?”

Reaching out, she gripped his rough hand in hers and replied, “You and I, in four months we meet  _ babae _ ’s clan. In the Free Marches. Keeper Hawen gave me the location.”

Folke just nodded in return, his fingers clasping hers tightly, and Blackwall huffed out a breath before commenting, “Guess we best get moving then, lass. Those bastards in the Graves aren’t going to wait on us.”

“You’re too fucking right,” Meryell agreed. “Soon as we get back to Path of Flame, I’m sending a raven back to Skyhold, and we’re going after those shitbags and the Red Templars with all the force we’ve got.”

“And?” asked Folke, a feral sort of grin twisting his mouth. She grinned right back at him with the same smile, knowing already that he knew her answer.

“We send the bastards back to the Void that fucking spawned them.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven/Elvhen Translations**
> 
>  
> 
> da’asa’var’lin - little cousin  
> vi’dirth’vhen’an - native language, literally ‘home way of speech’  
> shielan - wanderer from shia (to wander) + elan (to create agent noun)  
> Dar’eth shiral - safe journey


End file.
